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CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS 



WRITINGS 



OP 



T. NOON TALFOURD. 



CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS 



WRITINGS 



OP 



t.'noon talfourd, 



AUTHOR OF " ION. 



IN ONE VOLUME. 



PHILADELPHIA: 

CAREY AND HART. 

1842. 






Entered according to the Act of Congress, in the year one 
thousand eight hundred and forty-two, by 

CAREY & HART, 

in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the Eastern Dis- 
trict of Pennsylvania. 



GRIGGS & CO., PRINTERS. 



CONTENTS. 



On British Novels and Romances, Introductory to a 
Series of Criticisms on the Living Novelists, 9 

New Monthly Magazine. 

Mackenzie, 18 

New Monthly Magazine. 

The Author of Waverley, - - - - - 24 
New Monthly Magazine. 

Godwin, 35 

New Monthly Magazine. 

Maturin, - - - " -•' - ' 43 

New Monthly Magazine. 

Rymer on Tragedy, ,...,.- 53 
Retrospective Review. 

Colley Gibber's Apology for his Life, . - 72 

Retrospective Review. 

John Dennis's Works, 92 

Retrospective Review, 



Modern Periodical Literature, - - - - 113 
New Monthly Magazine. 

On the Genius and Writings of Wordsworth, - 125 

New Monthly Magazine. 

North's Life of Lord Guilford, - - - 160 

Retrospective Review, 

Hazlitt's Lectures on the Drama, - - - 184 

Edinburgh Review. 

Wallace's Prospects of Mankind, Nature, and Provi- 
dence, --..-.-. 198 

Retrospective Review. 

On Pulpit Oratory, 224 

London Magazine. 

Recollections of Lisbon, ..... 236 
New Monthly Magazine, 

Lloyd's Poems, 254 

London Magazine. 

Mr. Oldaker on Modern Improvements, - - 268 

New Monthly Magazine. 

A Chapter on " Time," .... - 277 

New Monthly Magazine. 

On the Profession of the Bar, - - - - 285 
London Magazine. 

The Wine Cellar, ...-.- 307 
New Monthly Magazine. 



CONTENTS. Vii 

Destruction of the Brunswick Theatre by Fire, - 315 
New Monthly Magazine. 

First Appearance of Miss Fanny Kemble, - - 319 
New Monthly Magazine. 

On the Intellectual Character of the late William 
Hazlitt, --..... 329 

The Examiner. 



T ALF OURD'S 

MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS. 



ON BRITISH NOVELS AND ROMANCES, INTRODUCTORY TO A SERIES 
OF CRITICISMS ON THE LIVING NOVELISTS. 

[New Monthly Magazine.] 

We regard the authors of the best novels and romances 
as among the truest benefactors of their species. Their 
works have often conveyed, in the most attractive form, les- 
sons of the most genial wisdom. But we do not prize them 
so much in reference to their immediate aim, or any indi- 
vidual traits of nobleness with which they may inform the 
thoughts, as for their general tendency to break up that cold 
and debasing selfishness with which the souls of so large a 
portion of mankind are encrusted. They give to a vast 
class, who by no means would be carried beyond the most 
contracted range of emotion, an interest in things out of 
themselves, and a perception of grandeur and of beauty, of 
which otherwise they might ever have lived unconscious. 
Pity for fictitious sufferings is, indeed, very inferior to that 
sympathy with the universal heart of man, which inspires 
real self-sacrifice ; but it is better even to be moved by its ten- 
derness, than whoDy to be ignorant of the joy of natiu-al 
tears. How many are there for whom poesy has no charm, 
and who have derived only from romances those glimpses 
of disinterested heroism, and ideal beauty, which alone 
" make them less forloiTi," in their busy career ! The good 
house-wife, who is employed all her life in the severest 
2 



10 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

drudgery, has yet some glimmerings of a state and dignity 
above her station and age, and some dim vision of meek, 
angelic sufTeilng, when she thinks of the well-thumbed volume 
of Clarissa Harlowe, which she found, when a girl, in some old 
recess, and read, with breathless eagerness, at stolen tunes 
and moments of hasty joy. The careworn lawyer or poli- 
tician, encircled with all kinds of petty anxieties, thinks of the 
Arabian Nights Entertainments, which he devom'ed in his 
joyful school-days, and is once-more young, and innocent, 
and happy. If the sternest pmitan were acquainted with 
Parson Adams, or with Dr. Primrose, he could not hate the 
clergy. If novels are not the deepest teachers of humanity, 
they have, at least, the widest range. They lend to genius 
" lighter wings to fly." They are read where Milton and 
Shakspeare are only talked of, and where even their names 
are never heard. They nestle gently beneath the covers 
of unconscious sophas, are read by fair and gUsterdng eyes, 
in moments snatched from repose, and beneath counters 
and shop-boards, minister delights " secret, sweet, and pre- 
cious." It is possible that, in particular instances, their effects 
may be baneful ; but, on the whole, we are persuaded they 
are good. The w^orld is not in danger of becoming too ro- 
mantic. The golden threads of poesy are not too thickly 
or too closely interwoven with the ordinary web of ex- 
istence. Sympathy is the first great lesson which man 
sho'.ild learn. It will be ill for liim if he proceeds no farther ; 
if his emotions are but excited to roU back on his heart ; 
and to be fostered in luxurious quiet. But imless he learns to 
feel for things in which he has no personal interest, he can 
achieve nothing generous or noble. This lesson is in reality 
the universal moral of aU excellent romances. How mis- 
taken are those miserable reasoners who object to them as 
giving false pictures of life — of purity too glossy and etherial 
— of friendship too deep and confiding — of love wliich does 
not shrink at the approach of ill, but looks on tempests and 
is never shaken," because with these the world too rarely 
blossoms ! Were these things visionary and um'eal, who 
would break the spell, and bid the delicious enchantment 
vanish'? The soul will not be the worse for thinking too 
well of its kind, or believing that the highest excellence is 
Avithin the reach of its exertions. But these things are not 



ON BRITISH NOVELS AND ROMANCES. 1 1 

unreal ; they are shadows, indeed, in themselves ; but they 
are shadows cast from objects stately, and eternal. Man 
can never imagine that which has no foimdation in Iiis na- 
ture. The virtues, he conceives, are not the mere pageantry 
of his thought. We feel their truth — not their liistoric or 
individual truth — but their universal truth, as reflexes of hu- 
man energy, and power. It would be enough for us to 
prove that the imaginative glories, which are shed around 
our being, are far brighter than " the light of common day," 
which mere vulgar experience in the course of the world 
difl[uses. But, in truth, that radiance is not merely of the 
fancy, nor are its influences lost when it ceases imme- 
diately to shine on our path. It is holy and prophetic. The 
best joys of childhood — its boimdless aspirations and gor- 
geous dreams, are the sure indications of the nobleness of 
its final heritage. AU the softenings of evil to the moral 
vision by the gentleness of fancy, are proofs that evil itself 
shall perish. Our yearnings after ideal beauty show that 
the home of the soul which feels them, is in a lovelier world. 
And when man describes high ^drtues, and instances of no- 
bleness, which rarely light on earth ; so sublime that they 
expand our imaginations beyond their former compass, yet 
so human that they make our hearts gush with deUght ; he 
discovers feelings in his own breast, and awakens sympa- 
thies in oms, which shall assuredly one day have real and 
stable objects to rest on ! 

The early times of England — unlike those of Spain — were 
not rich in chivalrous romances. The imagination seems to 
have been chilled by the maimers of the Norman conque- 
rors. The domestic contests for the disputed throne, with 
their intrigues, battles, and executions, have none of that 
rich, poetical interest, which attended the struggles for the 
holy sepulclii'e. Nor, in the golden age of English genius, 
were there any very remarkable works of pure fiction. 
Since that period to the present day, however, there has 
been a rich succession of novels and romances, each in- 
creasing the stores of innocent delight, and shedding on hu- 
man life some new tint of tender colouring. 

The novels of Richardson are at once among the gi-andest 
and the most singular creations of human genius. They 
combine an accurate acquaintance with the freest libertinism, 



12 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

and the sternest professions of virtue — a sporting with vi- 
cious casuistry, and the deepest horror of free-thinking — the 
most stately ideas of paternal authority, and the most elaborate 
display of its abuses. Prim and stiff, almost without parallel, 
the author perpetually treads on the very borders of inde- 
corum, but with a solemn and assured step, as if certain that 
he could never fall. " The precise, strait laced Richardson," 
says Mr. Lamb in one of the profound and beautiful notes to 
his specimens, " has strengthened vice from the mouth of Love- 
lace, ^vith entangling sophistries, and abstruse pleas against 
her adversary virtue, which Sedley, Villiers, and Rochester, 
wanted depth of libertinism sufficient to have invented." 
He had, in fact, the power of making any set of notions, 
however, fantastical, appear as " truths of holy writ," to his 
readers. This he did by the authority with which he dis- 
posed of aU tilings, and by the infinite minuteness of his de- 
tails. His gradations are so gentle, that we do not at any 
one point, hesitate to follow him, and should descend with him 
to any depth before we perceived that our path had been un- 
equal. By the means of this strange magic, we become 
anxious for the marriage of Pamela with her base master ; 
because the author has so imperceptibly wrought on us the 
belief of an awful distance between the rights of an esquire 
and his servant, that our imaginations regard it in the place 
of all moral distinctions. After aU, the general impression 
made on us by his works, is virtuous. Clementina is to the 
soul a new and majestic image, inspired by virtue and by 
love, which raises and refines its conceptions. She has all 
the depth and mtensity of the Italian character, with all the 
purity of an angel. She is at the same time one of the 
grandest of tragic heroines, and the divinest of religious en- 
thusiasts. Clarissa alone is above her. Clementina steps 
stateUly in her very madness, amidst " the pride, pomp, and 
circumstance" of Italian nobility; Clarissa is triumphant, 
though violated, deserted, and encompassed by vice and in- 
famy. Never can we forget that amazing scene, in which, 
on the effort of her mean seducer to renew his outrages, she 
appears in all the radiance of mental purity, among the 
AVTetches assembled to witness his triumph, where she startles 
them by her first appearance, as by a vision from above ; 
and holding the penknife to her breast, with her eyes lifted 



ON BRITISH NOVELS AND ROMANCES. 13 

to heaven, prepares to die, if her craven destroyer advances, 
striking the vilest vi^ith the deep awe of goodness, and walk- 
ing placidly at last, from the circle of her foes, none of them 
darmg to harm her ! How pathetic, above aU other pathos 
in tlie world, are those snatches of meditation which she 
commits to the paper, in the first delirimn of her wo ! How 
delicately imagined are her preparations, for that grave in 
which alone she can find repose ! Cold must be the hearts 
of those who can conceive them as too elaborate, or who 
can \'enture to criticise them. In this novel all appears most 
real ; we feel enveloped, like Don Q,uixote, by a thousand 
threads ; aud like him, would we rather remain so for ever, 
than break one of their silken fibres. Clarissa Harlowe is 
one of the books which leave us different beings from those 
which they find us. " Sadder and wiser " do we arise from 
its perusal. 

Yet when we read Fielding's novels after those of Richard- 
son, we feel as if a stupendous pressure were removed from 
our souls. We seem suddenly to have left a palace of en- 
chantment, where we have past through long galleries filled 
with the most gorgeous images, and iUmTiined by a light not 
quite human nor yet quite divine, into the fresh ah', and 
the common ways of this " bright and breathing world." 
We travel on the high road of himianity, yet meet in it 
pleasanter companions, and catch more delicious snatches of 
refreshment than ever we can hope elsewhere to enjoy. The 
mock heroic of Fielding, when he condescends to that am- 
biguous style, is scarcely less pleasing than its stately proto- 
type. It is a sort of spirited defiance to fiction, on the be- 
half of reality, by one who knew full well all the strong 
holds of that nature which he was defending. There is not 
in Fielding much of that which can properly be called ideal — 
if we except the character of Parson Adams ; but his works 
represent life as more delightful than it seems to common 
experience, by disclosing those of its dear immunities, which 
we little think of, even when we enjoy them. How delicious 
are all his refreshments at all his inns ! How vivid are the 
transient joys of his heroes, in their chequered course — how 
full and over-flowing are their final raptures ! His Tom 
Jones is quite unrivalled in plot, and is to be rivalled only in 
his own works for felicitous delineation of character. The 
2* 



14 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

little which we have told us of Allworthy, especially that which 
relates to his feelings respecting his deceased wife, makes us 
feel for him, as for one of the best and most revered fiiends 
of our childhood. Was ever the " soul of goodness in things 
evil " better disclosed, than in the scruples and the disho- 
nesty of Black George, that tenderest of gamekeepers and 
tiniest of thieves 1 Did ever health, good-humour, frank- 
heartedness, and animal spirits hold out so freshly against 
vice and fortune as in the hero 1 Was ever so plausible a 
hypocrite as Blifil, who buys a Bible of Tom Jones so de- 
lightfully, and who, by his admirable imitation of virtue, 
leaves it almost in doubt, whether, by a counterfeit so dex- 
terous, he did not merit some share of her rewards 1 Who 
shall gainsay the cherry lips of Sophia Western? The 
story of Lady BeUaston we confess to be a blemish. But if 
there be any vice left in the work, the fresh atmosphere dif- 
fused over all its scenes, will render it innoxious. Jose^ih 
Andrews has far less merit as a story — but it depicts Parson 
Adams, whom it does the heart good to think on. He who 
di'ew this character, if he had done nothing else, would not 
have lived in vain. We fancy we can see him with his torn 
cassock, (in honour of his high profession,) his volumes of 
sermons, which we really wish had been printed, and his 
Eschylus, the best of all the editions of that sublime tragedian ! 
Whether he longs after his own sermons against vanity — 
or is absorbed in the romantic tale of the fair Leonora — or 
uses his ox-like fists in defence of the fairer Fanny, he equal- 
ly embodies in his person " the homely beauty of the good 
Old cause," of high thoughts, pure imaginations, and man- 
ners unspotted by the world. 

SmoUet seems to have had more touch of romance than 
Fielding, but not so profound and intuitive a knowledge of 
humanity's hidden treasures. There is nothing in his works 
comparable to Parson Adams ; but then, on the other hand, 
Fielding has not any thing of the kind equal to Strap. Par- 
tiidge is dry, and hard, compared with this poor barber-boy, 
with his generous overflo^vings of affection. Roderick Ran- 
dom, indeed, with its varied delineation of life, is almost a 
romance. Its hero is worthy of his name. He is the sport of 
fortune rolled about through the " many ways of wretched- 
ness " almost without resistance, but ever catching those 



ON BRITISH NOVELS AND ROMANCES. 15 

tastes of joy which are every where to be relished by those 
who are willing to receive them. We seem to roll on with 
him, and get delectably giddy in his company. 

The humanity of the Vicar of Wakefield is less deep than 
that of Roderick Random, but sweeter tinges of fancy are 
cast over it. The sphere in which Goldsmith's powers 
moved, was never very extensive, but, within it, he disco- 
vered all that was good, and shed on it the tenderest lights 
of his sympathizing genius. No one ever excelled so much 
as he in depicting amiable follies and endearing weaknesses. 
His satire makes us at once smUe at, and love all that he so 
tenderly ridicules. The good Vicar's trust in Monagomy, 
his son's purchase of the spectacles, his own sale of his horse, 
to his solemn admirer at the fair ; the blameless vanities of 
his daughters, and his resignation under his accumulated 
sorrows, are among the best treasures of memory. The 
pastoral scenes in this exquisite tale are the sweetest in the 
world. The scents of the hay field, and of the blossoming 
hedge-rows, seem to come freshly to our senses. The whole 
romance is a tenderly-coloured picture, in little, of human 
nature's most genial qualities. 

De Foe is one of the most extraordinary of English au- 
thors. His Robinson Crusoe is deservedly one of the most 
popular of novels. It is usually the first read, and always 
among the last forgotten. The interest of its scenes in the 
uninhabited island is altogether peculiar ; since there is no- 
thing to develope the character but deep solitude. Man, 
there, is alone in the world, and can hold communion only 
with nature, and nature's God. There is nearly the same 
situation in Philoctetes, that sweetest of the Greek tragedies ; 
but there we only see the poor exOe as he is about to leave 
his sad abode, to which he has become attached, even with 
a child-like cleaving. In Robinson Crusoe, life is stripped of 
all its social joys, yet we feel how worthy of cherishing it is, 
with nothing but silent natm'e to cheer it. Thus are nature 
and the soul, left with no other solace, represented in their 
native grandeur and intense communion. With how fond 
an interest do we dwell on all the exertions of our fellow- 
man, cut off" from his kind ; watch his growing plantations 
as they rise, and seem to water them with our tears ! The 
exceeding vividness of all the descriptions are more delight- 



16 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

ful when combined with the lonelines and distance of tlie 
scene " placed far amid the melancholy main " in which we 
become dwellers. We have grown so familiar with the so- 
litude, that the print of man's foot seen in the sand seems to 
appal us as an awful thing ! — The Family Instinictor of this 
author, in which he inculcates weightily his own notions of 
puritanical demeanour and parental authority, is very curious. 
It is a strange mixture of narrative and dialogue, fanaticism 
and nature ; but all done with such earnestness, that the 
sense of its reality never quits us. Nothing, however, can 
be more harsh and unpleasing than the unpression which it 
leaves. It does injustice both to religion and the world. It 
represents the innocent pleasures of the latter as deadly sins, 
and the former as most gloomy, austere, and exclusive. One 
lady resolves on poisoning her husband, and another deter- 
mines to go to the play, and the author ti'eats both offences 
with a severity nearly equal ! 

Far different fi'om this ascetic novel is that best of re- 
ligious romances, the Fool of Quality. The piety there is at 
once most deep and most benign. There is much, indeed of 
eloquent mysticism, but all evidently most heartfelt and sin- 
cere. The yearnings of the soul after vmiversal good and 
intimate communion with the divine natm-e were never more 
nobly shown. The author is most prodigal of his intellectual 
wealth — " his boimty is as boundless as the sea, liis love as 
deep." He gives to his chief characters riches endless as 
the spuitual stores of his own heart. It is, indeed, only the 
last wliich gives value to the first in his writings. It is easy to 
endow men with millions on paper, and to make them willing 
to scatter them among the wretched ; but it is the coiTespond- 
ing bounty and exuberance of the author's soul, which here 
makes the money sterling, and the charity divine. The liero 
of tliis romance always appears to our imagination like a 
radiant vision encircled with celestial glories. The stories 
introduced in it are delightful exceptions to the usual rule by 
which such incidental tales are properly regarded as imper- 
tinent intrusions. That of David Doubtflil is of the most 
romantic interest, and at the same time steeped in feeling 
the most profoimd. But that of Clement and Ms wife is 
perhaps the finest. The scene m which they are discovered, 
having placidly lain down to die of hunger together, in gentle 



ON BRITISH NOVELS AND ROMANCES. 17 

submission to Heaven, depicts a quiescence the most sublime, 
yet the most affecting. Nothing can be more delightful than 
the sweetening ingredients in their cup of sorrow. The he- 
roic act of the lady to free herself from her ravisher's grasp, 
her trial and her triumphant acquittal, have a grandeur 
above that of tragedy. The genial spirit of the author's 
faith leads him to exult especially in the repentance of the 
wicked. No human wiiter seems ever to have hailed the 
contrite with so cordial a welcome. His scenes appear over- 
spread with a rich atmosphere of tenderness, which softens 
and consecrates all things. 

We would not pass OA^er, without a tribute of gratitude. 
Mrs. Radcliffe's wild and wondi'ous tales. When we read 
them, the world seems shut out, and we breathe only in an 
enchanted region, where lovers' lutes tremble over placid 
waters, mouldering castles rise conscious of deeds of blood, 
and the sad voices of the past echo through deep vaults and 
lonely galleries. There is always majesty in her terrors. 
She produces more effect by whlsi^ers and slender hints than 
ever was attained by the most vivid display of hoiTors. Her 
conclusions are tame and impotent almost without example. 
But wliiie her spells actually operate, her power is tiiily ma- 
gical. Who can ever forget the scene in the Romance of 
the Forest, where the marquis, who has long sought to make 
the heroine the victim of licentious love, after working on her 
protector, over whom he has a mysterious influence, to steal 
at night into her chamber, and when his trembling listener 
expects only a requisition for deliveiing her into his hands 
replies to the question i of " then — to night, my Lord !" 
" Adelaide dies " — or the allusions to the dark veil in the 
Mysteries of Udolpho — or the stupendous scenes in Spala- 
tro's cottage 1 Of all romance writers Mrs. Radcliffe is the 
most romantic. 

The present age has produced a singular number of au- 
thors of delightful prose fiction, on whom we intend to give 
a series of criticisms. We shall begin with Mackenzie, 
whom we shall endeavour to compare with Steme , and for 
this reason we have passed over the works of the latter in 
our present cursory view of the novelists of other days. 



18 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 



MACKENZIE. 

[New Monthly Magazine.] 

Although our veneration for Mackenzie has induced us to 
commence this series of articles with an attempt to express 
oui' sense of liis genius, we scarcely know how to criticize its 
exquisite creations. The feelings which they have awakened 
within us are too old and too sacred almost for expression. 
We scarcely dare to scrutinize with a critic's ear, the blend- 
ing notes of that sad and soft music of humanity which the)'- 
breathe. We feel as if there were a kind of privacy in our sym- 
patliies with them — as though they were a part of ourselves, 
which sti-angers knew not — and as if in publicly expressing 
them, we were violating the sanctities of our own souls. We 
must recollect, however, that our readers know them as well 
as we do, and then to dwell with them tenderly on their 
merits, win seem like discoursing of the long cherished memo- 
ries of friends we had in common, and of sorrows participated 
in childhood. 

The purely sentimental style in which the tales of Macken- 
zie are written, though deeply felt by the people, has seldom 
met with due appreciation from the critics. It has its own 
genuine and peculiar beauties, wMch we love the more the 
longer we feel them. Its consecrations are altogether drawn 
from the soul. The gentle tinges which it casts on human 
life are shed not from the iiBagination or the fancy, but from 
the affections. It represents, indeed, humanity as more tender, 
its sorrows as more gentle, its joys as more abundant than 
they appear to common observers. But this is not effected 
by those influences of the imagination which consecrate what- 
ever they touch, which detect the secret analogies of beauty, 



MACKENZIE. 19 

and biTng kindred gi'aces fi-om all parts of nature to heighten 
the images which they reveal. It affects us rather by cast- 
ing off from the soul, those impuiities and littlenesses which 
it contracts in the world, than by foreign aids. It appeals to 
those simple emotions which are not the high prerogatives of 
genius, but which are common to all who are " made of one 
blood," and partake in one piimal sympathy. The holiest 
feelings, after all, are those which would be the most common 
if gross selfishness and low ambition froze not " the genial 
cuiTent of the soul." The meanest and most ungifted have 
theii" gentle remembrances of early days. Love has tinged 
the life of the aitizan and the cottager with sometliing of the 
romantic. The course of none has been silong so beaten a 
road that they remember not fondly some resting places in 
tlieu" jom-neys ; some turns of theu* path in which lovely pro- 
spects broke in upon them ; some soft plats of green refi-eshing 
to theu' weaiy feet. Confiding love, generous friendsliip, 
disinterested humanity, requii'e no recondite leaiTiing, no 
high imagination, to enable an honest heart to appreciate and 
feel them. Too often, indeed, are the simplicities of nature, 
and the native tendernesses of the soul nipped and chilled by 
those anxieties which lie on them " Uke an untimely frost." 
" The world is too much with us." We become lawyers, 
politicians, merchants, and forget that we are men, and sink 
in om" transitoiy vocations, that character which is to last 
for ever. A tale of sentiment — such as those of that ho- 
noured veteran whose works we would now particularly 
remember — awakens all these pulses of .sympathy with our 
kind, of whose beatings we had become almost vmconscious. 
It does honour to humanity by stripping off its aitificial dis- 
guises. Its magic is not like that by which Ai'abian en- 
chanters raised up glittering spires, domes, and palaces by a 
few cabalistic words ; but resembles theu' power to disclose 
veins of precious ore where aU seemed sterile and blasted. 
It gently puts aside the brambles which overcast the stream of 
life, and lays it open to the reflexions of those delicate clouds 
wliich lie above it in the heavens. It shows to us the soft 
undercoui"ses of feeling, which neither time nor cu'cvmistances 
can wholly stop ; and the depth of affection in the soul, wliich 
nothing but sentiment itself can fathom. It disposes us to 
pensive thought — expands the sympathies — and makes all 



20 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

the half-forgotten delights of youth " come back upon our 
hearts again," to soften and to cheer us. 

Too often has the sentiment of which we have spoken been 
confounded with sickly affectations in a common censui'e. 
But no things can be more opposite than the paradoxes of 
the inferior order of German sentimentalists and the works of 
a writer like Mackenzie. Real sentiment is the truest, the 
most genuine, and the most lasting thing on earth. It is 
more ancient as well as more certain in its operations, than 
the reasoning faculties. We know and feel before we think ; 
we perceive before we compare ; we enjoy before we believe. 
As the evidence of sense is stronger than that of testimony, 
so the light of our inward eye more traly shows to us the 
secrets of the heart than the most elaborate process of reason. 
Riches, honours, power, are transitory — the things which 
appear, pass away — the shadows of life alone are stable and 
unchanging. Of the recollections of infancy notliing can de- 
prive us. Love endures, even if its object perishes, and nur- 
tures the soul of the mom^ner. Sentiment has a kind of 
divine alchymy, rendering grief itself the source of tenderest 
thoughts, and far-reaching desires, which ^the sufferer che- 
rishes as sacred treasures. The sorrows over which it sheds 
its influence are " ill barter'd for the garishness of joy ;" for 
they win us softly from Ufe, and fit us to die smiling. It 
endures, not only while fortune changes, but while opinions 
vary, which the young enthusiast fondly hoped would never 
forsake him. It remains when the unsubstantial pageants of 
goodliest hope vanish. It binds the veteran to the child by 
ties which no fluctuations even of belief can alter. It pre- 
serves the only identity, save that of consciousness, which 
man with certainty retains — connecting our past with our 
present, bemg by delicate ties so subtle, that they vibrate to 
every breeze of feeling ; yet so strong that the tempests of 
life have not power to break them. It assures us that what 
we have been we shall be, and that our human hearts shall 
vibrate with their first sympathies, while the species shall 
endure. 

We think that, on the whole, Mackenzie is the first master 
of this delicious style. Sterne, doubtless, has deeper touches 
of humanity in some of his works. But there is no sustained 
feeling — no continuity of emotion — no extended range of 



MACKENZIE. 21 

thought, over which the mind can brood in his ingenious and 
fantastical writings. His spirit is far too mercurial and airy 
to suffer him tenderly to linger over those images of sweet 
humanity which he discloses. His cleverness breaks the 
charm which his feeling spreads, as by magic, around us. His 
exquisite sensibility is ever counteracted by his perceptions 
of the ludicrous, and his ambition after the strange. No har- 
monious feeling breathes from any of his pieces. He sweeps 
"that curious instrument, the human heart," with hurried 
fingers, calling forth in rapid succession its deepest and its 
liveliest tones, and making only marvellous discord. His 
pathos is, indeed, most genuine while it lasts ; but the soul is 
not suffered to cherish the feeling which it awakens. He 
does not shed, like Mackenzie, one mild light on the path of 
life ; but scatters on it wild coruscations of ever shifting 
brightness, which, whUe they somethnes disclose spots of in- 
imitable beauty, often do but fantastically play over objects 
dreaiy and revolting. All in Mackenzie is calm, gentle, har- 
monious. No play of mistimed wit, no flomish of rhetoric, 
no train of philosophical speculation, for a moment diverts our 
sympathy. Each of his best works is like one deep thought, 
and the impression which it leaves, soft, sweet, and undivided 
as the summer evening's holiest and latest sigh ! 

The only exception which we can make to this character, 
is the Man of the World. Here the attempt to attain intri- 
cacy of plot disturbs the emotion which, in the other works 
of the author, is so harmoniously excited. A tale of senti- 
ment should be most simple. Its whole effect depends on its 
keeping the tenor of its predominant feeling unbroken. An- 
other defect in this story is, the length of time over which it 
spreads its narrative. Sindall, alone, connects the two gene- 
rations which it embraces, and he is too mean and uninterest- 
ing thus to appear both as the hero and the chorus. When 
a story is thus continued from a mother to a daughter, it 
seems to have no legitimate boimdary. The painful remem- 
brance of the former interferes with our interest for the latter, 
and the present difficulties of the last deprive us of those 
emotions of fond retrospection, which the fate of the first 
would otherwise awaken. Still there are in this tale scenes 
of pathos delicious as any which, even the author himself, has 
drawn. The tender pleasure which the Man of Feeling ex- 
3 



22 talfoord's miscellaneous writings. 

cites is wholly without alloy. Its hero is the most beautiful 
personification of gentleness, patience, and meek sufferings, 
which the heart can conceive. Julia de Roubigne however, 
is, on the whole, the most delightful of the author's works. 
There is in this tale enough of plot to keep alive curiosity, 
and shai-pen the interest which the sentuxient awakens, with- 
out any of those strange turns and perplexing incidents which 
break the current of sympathy. The diction is in perfect 
harmony with the subject — " most musical, most melan- 
choly" — with " golden cadences" responsive to the thoughts. 
There is a plaintive charm in the image presented to us of 
the heroine, too fair almost to dwell on. How exquisite is 
the description given of her by her maid, in a letter to her 
friend, relatmg to her fatal marriage : — " She was di'essed in 
a white muslm night-gown, with striped lUac and white ri- 
bands ; her hair was kept m the loose way you used to make 
me dress it for her at Belville, with two waving curls down 
one side of her neck, and a braid of little pearls. And to be 
sure, with her dark brown locks resting upon it, her bosom 
looked as pure white as the driven snow. And then her 
eyes, when she gave her hand to the count ! they were cast 
down, and you might see her eye-lashes, like strokes of a 
pencil, over the white of her skin — the modest gentleness, 
with a sort of sadness too, as it were, and a gentle heave of 
her bosom at the same time." And yet, such is the feeling 
communicated to us by the whole work, that we are ready to 
believe even this artless picture an inadequate representation 
of that beauty which we never cease to feel. How natural 
and tear-moving is the letter of SaviUon to his Mend, describing 
the scenes of his early love, and recalling, with intense vivid- 
ness, all the little cu'cumstances which aided its progress ! 
What an idea, in a single expression, does Julia give of the 
depth and the tenderness of her affection, Avhen describing 
herself as taking lessons in di-awing from her lover, she says 
that she felt something from the touch of his hand " not the 
less delightful from carrying a sort of fear along with that 
delight : it was like a pulse in the soul .'" The last scenes 
of this novel are matchless in their kind. Never was so much 
of the terrific alleviated by so much of the pitiful. The inci- 
dents are most tragic ; yet over them is diffused a breath of 
sweetness, which softens away half their anguish, and recon- 



MACKENZIE. 23 

ciles us to that which remahis. Our miiids are prepared, 
long before, for the early nipping of that delicate blossom, for 
which this world was too bleak. Julia's last interview with 
SaviUon mitigates her doom, partly by the joy her heart has 
tasted, and which nothing afterwards in life could equal, and 
partly by the certainty that she must either become guilty or 
continue wretched. Nothing can be at once sweeter and 
more affecting than her ecstatic dream after she has taken the 
fatal irdxtm'e, her seraphical playing on the organ, to which 
the waiting angels seem to listen, and her tranquU recalling 
the scenes of peaceful happiness with her friend, as she ima- 
gines her arms about her neck, and fancies that her Maria's 
tears are faUing on her bosom. Then comes Montaubon's 
description of her as she drank the poison : — " She took it 
from me smiling, and her look seemed to lose its confiision. 
She drank my health ! She was dressed in a white sDk bed- 
gown, ornamented with pale pink ribands. Her cheek was 
gently flushed fi"om their reflection; her blue eyes were 
turned upwards as she drank, and a dark brown ringlet lay 
on her shovilder." We do not think even the fate of " the 
gentle lady maiTied to the Moor " calls forth tears so sweet 
as those which fall for the Julia of Mackenzie ! 

We rejoice to know and feel that these delicious tales can- 
not perish. Since they were written, indeed, the national 
imagination has been, in a great degree, perverted by strong 
excitements, and "fed on poisons till they have become a 
kind of nutriment." But the quiet and unpresuming beau- 
ties of these works depend not on the fashion of the world. 
They camiot be out of date till the dreams of young imagina- 
tion shall vanish, and the deepest sympathies of love and hope 
shall be chilled for ever. While other works are extolled, 
admired, and reviewed, these will be loved and wept over. 
Their author, in the evening of his days, may truly feel that 
he has not lived in vain. Gentle hearts shall ever blend their 
thought of him among their remembrances of the benefactors 
of their youth. And when the fever of the world " shall hang 
upon the beatings of their hearts," how often will their spirits 
turn to him, who, as he cast a soft seriousness over the 
mourning of life, shall assist in tranquillizing its noon-tide 
sorrows ! 



24 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 



"THE AUTHOR OF WAVERLY." 

Here are we in a bright and breathing world. — Wordsworth, 
[New Monthly Magazine.] 

We esteem the productions which the great novelist of 
Scotland has pom^ed forth with startling speed from his rich 
treasury, not only as multiplying the sources of delight to 
thousands, but as shedding the most genial influences on 
the taste and feeling of the people. These, with their fresh 
spirit of health, have counteracted the workings of that blast- 
ing spell by which the genius of Lord B5n:on once threatened 
strangely to fascinate and debase the vast multitude of 
English readers. Men, seduced by their noble poet, had 
begun to pay homage to mere energy, to regard virtue as 
low and mean compared with lofty crime, and to think that 
high passion carried in itself a justification for its most fear- 
ful excesses. He inspired them with a feeling of diseased 
curiosity to know the secrets of dark bosoms, while he opened 
his own perturbed spirit to their gaze. His works, and those 
imported from Germany, tended to give to our iinagination 
an introspective cast, to perplex it with metaphysical subtle- 
ties, and to render our poetry " sicklied o'er with the pale cast 
of thought." The genius of our country was thus in danger 
of being perverted from its purest uses to become the minis- 
ter of vain philosophy, and the anatomist of polluted natures. 

" The author of Waverly," (as he delights to be styled) has 
weaned it from its idols, and restored to it its warm youth- 
ful blood and human affections. Nothing can be more op- 
posed to the gloom, the inward revolvings, and morbid 
speculations, which the world once seemed inclined to esteem 
as the sole prerogatives of the bard, than his exquisite crea- 



THE AUTHOR OF WAVERLY. Z5 

tions. His persons are no shadowy abstractions — no per- 
sonifications of a dogma — no portraits of the author varied 
in costume, but similar in features. With all their rich varie- 
ties of character, whether their heroical spirit touches on the 
godlike, or their wild eccentricities border on the farcical, 
they are men fashioned of human earth, and warm with hu- 
man sympathies. He does not seek for the sublime in the 
mere intensity of burning passion, or for sources of enjoyment 
in those feverish gratifications which some would teach us 
to believe the only felicities worthy of high and impassioned 
souls. He writes every where with a keen and healtliful 
relish for all the good things of life — constantly refreshes us 
where we least expected it, with a sense of that pleasiu'e 
which is spread through the earth " to be caught in stray 
gifts by whoever will find," and brightens all things with the 
spirit of gladness. There is little of a meditative or retro- 
s})ective cast in his works. Whatever age he chooses for 
his story lives before us : we become contemporaries of all 
his persons, and sharers in all their fortunes. Of all men who 
have ever written, excepting Shakspeare, he has perhaps the 
least of exclusiveness, the least of those feelings which keep 
men apart from their kind. He has his own predilections — 
and we love him the better for them even when they are not 
ours —but they never prevent him from grasping with cordial 
spirit all that is human. His tolerance is the most complete, 
for it extends to adverse bigotries ; his love of enjoyment 
does not exclude the ascetic from his respect, nor does his 
fondness for hereditary rights and time-honoured institutions 
prevent his admiration of the fiery zeal of a sectary. His 
genius shines with an equal light on all — illuminating the 
vast hills of purple heath, the calm breast of the quiet water, 
and the rich masses of the grove — now gleaming with a 
sacred light on the distant towers of some old monastery, now 
softening the green-wood shade, now piercing the gloom of the 
rude cave where the old Covenanter lies — free and universal, 
and bounteous as the sun — and pouring its radiance with a 
like impartiality " upon a living and rejoicing world." 

We shall not attempt, in tliis slight sketch, to follow our 
author regularly through all his rich and varied creations ; 
but shall rather consider his powers in general of natural 
description — of skiQ in the delineation of character — and of 

3* 



26 talfourd's miscellaneous writings, 

exciting high and poetical interest, by the gleams of his 
fancy, the tragic elevation of his scenes, and the fearful 
touches which he delights to borrow from the world of 
spirits. 

In the vivid description of natural scenery our author is 
wholly without a rival, imless Sir Walter Scott will dispute 
the pre-eminence with liim ; and, even then, we think the 
novelist would be found to surpass the bard. The free grace 
of nature has, of late, contributed little to the charm of our 
highest poetry. Lord Byron has always, in his reference to 
the majestic scenery of the universe, dealt rather in grand 
generalities than minute pictures, has used the turbulence of 
the elements as symbols of inward tempests, and sought the 
vast solitudes and deep tranquillity of natu're, but to assuage 
the fevers of the soul. Wordsworth— who, amidst the con- 
tempt of the ignorant and of the worldly wise, has been gra- 
dually and silently moulding all the leading spirits of the 
age — has sought communion with nature, for other purposes 
than to describe her external forms. He has shed on aU 
creation a sweet and consecrating radiance, far other than 
"the light of common day." In Ms poetry the hiUs and 
streams appear, not as they are seen by vulgar eyes, but as 
the poet himself, in the holiness of his imagination has arrayed 
them. They are peopled not with the shapes of old super- 
stition, but with the shadows of the poet's thought, the dreams 
of a glory that shall be. They are resonant — not with the 
voice of birds, or the soft whisperings of the breeze, but with 
echoes from beyond the tomb. Their lowliest objects — a 
dwarf bush, an old stone, a daisy, or a small celandine — af- 
fect us with thoughts as deep, and inspire meditations as pro- 
foimd, as the loveliest scene of reposing beauty, or the wildest 
region of the moimtains — because the heart of the poet is aU 
in all — and the visible objects of his love are not dear to us 
for their own colours or forms, but for the sentiment which 
he has linked to them, and which they bring back upon our 
souls. We would not have this otherwise for all the ro- 
mances in the world. But it gladdens us to see the intrinsic 
claims of nature on our hearts asserted, and to feel that she 
is, for her own sake, worthy of deep love. It is not as the 
richest index of divine philosophy alone that she has a right 
to our affections ; and, therefore, we rejoice that in our author 



THE AUTHOR OF WAVERLY. 27 

^he has found a votary to whom her works are in themselves 
" an appetite, a feeling, and a love," and who finds, in their 
contemplation, " no need of a remoter charm, by thought 
supplied, or any interest unborrowed from the eye." Every 
gentle swelling of the ground — every gleam of the water — 
every curve and rock of the shore — all varieties of the earth, 
fi-om the vastest crag to the soft grass of the woodland walk, 
and all changes of the heaven from " morn to noon, from 
noon to latest eve," — are placed before us in his works with 
a distinctness beyond that which tlie painter's art can attain, 
while we seem to breathe the mountain air, or drink in the 
freshness of the valleys. We perceive the change in the land- 
scape at every step of the delightful journey through which 
he guides us. Our recollection never confounds any one 
scene with another, although so many are laid in the same 
region, and are alike in general character. The lake among 
the hills, on which the cave of Donald Bean bordered — that 
near which the clan of the M'Gregors combated, and which 
closed in blue calmness over the body of Maurice — and that 
which encircled the castle of Julian Avenel — are distinct from 
each other in the imagination, as the loveliest scenes which 
we have corporally visited. What in softest beauty can ex- 
ceed the description of the ruins of St. Ruth ; in the lovelily 
romantic the approach to the pass of AberfoU ; in varied lus- 
tre the winding shores of EUangowan bay ; in rude and 
dreary majesty the Higliland scenes, where Ronald of the 
Mist lay hidden ; and in terrific sublimity the rising of the 
sea on Fairport Sands, and the perUs of Sir Arthur Wardour 
and his daughter ] Our author's scene of comparative bar- 
renness are enchanting by the vividness of his details, and the 
fond delight with which he dwells on their redeeming fea- 
tures. We seem to know every little plot of green, every 
thicket of copse- wood, and every turn and cascade of the 
stream in the vale of Glendearg, and to remember each low 
bush in the barren scene of her skirmish between the Cove- 
nanters and Claverhouse, as though we had been familiar 
with it in chOdhood. The descriptions of this author are 
manifestly rendered more vivid by the intense love which he 
bears to his country — not only to her luxtiriant and sublime 
scenery, but " her bare earth, and mountains bare, and 
grass in the green field." He will scarcely leave a brook, a 



28 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

mountain ash, or a lichen on the rocks of her shore, without 
due honour. He may fitly be regarded as the genius of 
Scotland, who has given her a poetical interest, a vast place 
in the imagination, which may almost compensate for the 
loss of that political independence, the last struggling love for 
which he so nobly celebrates. 

" The author of Waverly" is, however, chiefly distinguished 
by the number, the spirit, and the individuality of his charac- 
ters. We know not, indeed, where to begin or to end with 
the vast crowd of their genial and noble shapes which come 
thi"onging on our memory. His ludicrous characters are 
dear to us, because they are seldom merely quaint or strange, 
the dry oddities of fancy, but have as genuine a kindred with 
humanity as the most gifted and enthusiastic of their fellows. 
The laughter which they excite is full of social sympathy, 
and we love them and om" nature the better while we in- 
dulge it. Whose heart does not claim kindred with Baillie 
Nichol Jarvie, while the Glasgow weaver without losing one 
of his nice peculiarities, kindles into honest wai'mth with liis 
ledger in hand, and in spite of broad-cloth grows almost ro- 
mantic 1 In whom does a perception of the ludicrous for a 
moment injure the veneration which the brave, stout-hearted 
and cliivalrous Baron of Bradwardine inspires 1 Who shares 
not in the fond enthusiasm of Oldbuck for black letter, in his 
eager and tremulous joy at grasping rare books at low prices, 
and in his discoveries of Roman camps and monuments 
which we can hardly forgive Edie Ochiltree for disproving 1 
Compared with these genial persons, the portraits of mere sin- 
gularity — however inimitably finished — are harsh and cold ; 
of these, indeed, the works of our author afford scarcely more 
than one signal example — Captain Dalgetty — who is a mere 
piece of ingenious mechanism, like the automaton chess-player, 
and with all his cleverness, gives us little pleasure, for he ex- 
cites as little sympathy. Almost all the persons of these 
novels, diversified as they are, are really endowed with some 
deep and elevating enthusiasm, which, whether breaking 
through eccentricities of manner, perverted by error, or min- 
gled with crime, ever asserts the majesty of our nature, its 
deep afiections, and imdying powers. This is true, not 
only of the divine enthusiasm of Flora Mac Ivor — of the sweet 
heroism of Jeannie Deans — of the angelic tenderness and 



THE AUTHOR OP WAVERLY. 29 

fortitude of Rebecca, but of the puritanic severities and awful 
zeal of Balfour of Burley, and the yet more frightful energy 
of Macbriar, equally ready to sacrifice a blameless youth, 
and to bear without shrinkijig the keenest of mortal agonies. 
In the fierce and hunted child of the mist — in the daring and 
reckless libertine Staimton — in the fearful Elspeth — in the 
vengeful wife of M'Gregor — are traits of wild and irregular 
greatness, fragments of might and grandeur, which show how 
noble and sacred a thing the heart of man is, in spite of its 
strangest debasements and perversions. How does the in- 
imitable portrait of Claverhouse at first excite our hatred for 
that carelessness of human misery, that contempt for the 
life of his fellows, that cold hauteiu- and finished indiflference 
which are so vividly depicted ; — and yet how does his mere 
soldierly enthusiasm redeem him at last, and almost persuade 
us that the honour and fame of such a man were cheaply 
purchased by a thousand lives ! We can scarcely class Rob 
Roy among these mingled characters. He has nothing but 
the name and the fortune of an outlaw and a robber. He is, 
in truth, one of the noblest of heroes — a Prince of the hether 
and the rock — whose very thirst for vengeance is tempered 
and harmonized by his fondness for the wild and lovely scenes 
of his home. Indeed the influences of majestic scenery are 
to be perceived tinging the rudest minds which the author 
has made to expatiate amidst its solitudes. The passions 
even of Burley and of Macbriar, borrow a grace firom the 
steep crags, the deep masses of shade, and the sUent caves, 
among which they were nurtured, as the most rapid and per- 
tm-bed stream which rushes through a wild and romantic 
region bears some reflection of noble imagery on its impetu- 
ous surface. To some of his less stern but unlettered per- 
sonages, nature seems to have been a kindly instructor, 
nurturmg high thoughts within them, and well supplying to 
them all the lack of written wisdom. The wild sublimity of 
Meg MerrOies is derived from her long converse with the 
glories of creation ; the floating clouds have lent to her some- 
thing of their grace ; she has contemplated the rocks tUl her 
soul is fiirm as they, and gazed intently on the face of nature 
until she has become half acquainted with its mysteries. The 
old king's headman has not journeyed for years in vain among 
the hills and woods ; their beauty has sunk into his soul ; and 



30 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

his days seem bound each to each by " by natural piety " 
which he has learned among them. 

That we thmk there is much of true poetical genius — much 
of that which softens, refines, and elevates humanity in the 
works of this author — may be inferred from our remarks on 
his power of embodying human character. The gleams of 
a soft and delicate fancy are tenderly cast over many of their 
scenes — heightening that which is already lovely, relieving 
the gloomy, and making even the tliin blades of barren re- 
gions shine refreshingly on the eyes. We occasionally meet 
with a pure and pensive beauty, as in Pattieson's description 
of his sensations in his evening walks after the feverish 
drudgery of his school — with wild yet graceful fantasies, as 
in the songs of Davie Gellatly — or with visionary and aerial 
shapes, like the spirit of the House of Avenel. But the poetry 
of this author is, for the most part, of a far deeper cast; — 
flowing from his intense consciousness of the mysteries of our 
natui'e, and constantly impressing on our minds the high 
sanctities and the mortal destiny of our being. No one has 
ever made so impressive a use of the solemnities of life and 
death — of the awfiilness which rests over the dying, and ren- 
ders all their words and actions sacred — or of the fond retro- 
spection, and the intense present enjoyment, snatched fear- 
fully as if to secure it from fate, which are the pecxiliar bless- 
ings of a short and imcertain existence. Was ever the 
robustness of life — the mantlmg of the strong current of joy- 
ous blood — the high animation of health, spirits, and a stout 
heart, more vividly brought before the mind than in the de- 
scription of Frank Kennedy's demeanour as he rides lustily 
forth, never to return ] — or the fearful change from this hearty 
enjoyment of life to the chiUness of mortality, more deeply 
impressed on the imagination than in all the minute exami- 
nations of the scene of his murder, the traces of the deadly 
contest, the last marks of the struggling footsteps, and the 
description of the corpse at the foot of the crag 1 Can a 
scene of mortality be conceived more fearful than that where 
Bertram, in the glen of Dernclugh, witnesses the last agonies 
of one over whom Meg Merrilies is chaunting her wild ditties 
to soothe the passage of the spirit ] What a stupendous 
scene is that of the young fisher's ftmeral — the wretched father 
wiithing in the contortions of agony — tlie mother silent in 



THE AUTHOR OP WAVERLY. 31 

tender sorrow — the motley ci'owd assembled to partake of 
strange festivity — and the old grandmother fearfully linking 
the living to the dead, now turning her wheel in apathy and 
unconsciousness, now drinking with frightftil mirth to many 
" such merry meetings," now, to the astonishment of the be- 
holders rising to comfort her son, and intimating with horrid 
solemnity that there was more reason to mourn for her than 
for the departed ! Equal in terrific power, is the view given 
us of the last confession and death of that " awful woman" — 
iier intense perception of her long past guilt, with her dead- 
ness to all else — her yet quenchless hate to the object of her 
youthful vengeance, animating her frame with unearthly fire 
— her dying fancies that she is about to follow her mistress, 
and the broken images of old grandeur which flit before her 
as she perishes. These things are conceived in the highest 
spirit of tragedy, which makes life and death meet together, 
which exhibits humanity stripped of its accidents in all its 
depth and heighth, which impresses us at once with the vic- 
tory of death, and of the eternity of those energies whicli it 
appears to subdue. There are also in these works, situations 
of human interest as strong as ever were invented — attended 
too with all that high apparel of the imagination, which ren- 
ders the images of fear and anguish majestical. Such is that 
scene in the lone house after the defeat of the Covenanters, 
where Morton finds himself in the midst of a band of zealots, 
who regard him as given by God into their hands as a vic- 
tim — where he is placed before the clock to gaze on the ad- 
vances of the hand to the hour when he is to be slain, amidst 
the honible devotion of his foes. The whole scene is, we 
think, without an equal in the conceptions which dramatic 
power has been able to embody. Its startling unexpected- 
ness, yet its perfect probability to the imagination — the high 
tone and wild enthusiasm of character in the murderers — the 
sacrificial cast of their intended deed in their own raised and 
perverted thoughts — the fearful view given to the bodily 
senses of theu* prisoner of his remaining moments by the 
segment of the circle yet to be traversed by the finger of the 
clock before him, enable us to participate in th^ workings of 
his own dizzy soul, as he stands " awaiting till the sword 
destined to slay him crept out of its scabbard gradually, and, 
as it were by straw-breadths," and condemned to drink the 



32 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

bitterness of death " drop by drop," while his destined exe- 
cutioners seem " to alter their forms and features like the 
spectres in a feverish dream; their features become larger 
and theh: faces more disturbed ;" until the beings around him 
appear actually demons, the walls seem to drop with blood, 
and " the light tick of the clock thrills on his ear with such 
loud, painful distinctness, as if each sound were the prick of 
a bodkin inflicted on' the naked nerve of the organ." The 
effect is even retrospectively heightened by the heroic deaths 
of the Covenanters immediately succeeding, which give a 
dignity and a consecration to their late terrific design. The 
trial and execution of Fergus Mac Ivor are also, in the most 
exalted sense of the term, tragical. They are not only of 
breathless interest from the external cu'cumstances, nor of 
moral grandeur from the heroism of Fergus and his follower, 
but of poetic dignity from that power of imagination which 
renders for a time the rules of law sublime as well as fearful, 
and gives to all the formalities of a trial more than a judicial 
majesty. It is seldom, indeed, that the terrors of om' author 
offend or shock us, because they are accompanied by that 
reconciling power which softens without breaking the cur- 
rent of om' sympathies. But there are some few instances 
of unrelieved horror — or of anguish, which overmasters 
fantasy — as the strangling of Glossin by Dirk Haiteraich, the 
administeiing of the torture to Macbriar, and the bloody bri- 
dal of Lammenxiuir. If we compare these with the terrors 
of Burley in his cave — where with his naked sword in one 
hand and his Bible in the other, he wrestles with his own re- 
morse, believing it, in the spirit of his faith, a fiend of Satan — 
and with the sinking of Ravenswood in the sands ; we shall 
feel how the gi-andeui' of religious thought in the first in- 
stance, and the stately scenery of nature and the air of the 
supernatui'al in the last, ennoble agony, and render horrors 
grateful to the soul. 

We must not pass over, \vithout due acknowledgment, 
the power of our author in the description of battles, as ex- 
hibited in his pictm'es of the engagement at Preston Pans, of 
the first skirmish with the Covenanters, in which they over- 
come Claverhouse, and of the battle in which they were, in 
turn, defeated. The art by which he contrives at once to 
give the mortal contest in all its breadth and vastness — to 



THE AUTHOR OF WAVERLY. 33 

present it to us in the noblest masses ; yet to make us spec- 
tators of each individual circumstance of interest in the field, 
may excite the envy of a painter. We know of nothing re- 
sembling these delineations in history or romance, except the 
descriptions given by Thucydides of the blockade of Plataea, 
of the Corcyraean massacres, of the attempt to retake Epi- 
polae in the night, of the great naval action before Syracuse, 
of all the romantic events of the Sicilian war, and the varied 
miseries of the Athenian army in theu: retreat under Nicias. 
In the life and spirit, and minuteness of the details — in the 
intermingling of allusions to the scenery of the contests — 
and in the general fervour breathed over the whole there is 
a remarkable resemblance between these passages of the 
Greek historian, and the narratives of Scottish contests by 
the author of Waverley. There is too the same patriotic 
zeal in both ; though the feeling in the former is of a more 
awful and melancholy cast, and that of the latter more light 
and cheerful. The Scottish novelist may, like the noblest 
historians, boast that he has given to his country " Knif/.^ t? 
«;£/" — a possession for ever! 

It remains that we should say a word on the use made of 
the supernatural in these romances. There is, in the mode 
of its employment, more of gusto — more that approaches to 
an actual belief in its wonders, than in the works of any 
other author of these incredulous times. Even Shakspeare 
himself, in his remote age, does not appear to have drank in 
so deeply the spirit of superstition as our novelist of the 
nineteenth century. He treats, indeed, all the fantasies of 
his countrymen with that spirit of allowance and fond re- 
gard with which he always touches on hiunan emotions. 
But he does not seem to have heartily partaken in them as 
awful realities. His witches have power to excite wonder, 
but little to chill men's bloods. Ariel, the visions of Pros- 
pero's enchanted isle, the " qviaint fairies and the dapper 
elves " of the Midsmmner Night's Dream glitter on the fancy, 
in a thousand shapes of dainty loveliness, but never affect 
us otherwise than as creations of the poet's brain. Even 
the ghost in Hamlet does not appal us half so fearfully as 
many a homely tale which has nothing to recommend it but 
the earnest belief of its tremulous reciter. There is little 
magic in the web of life, notwithstanding all the variety of 
4 



34 talpourd's miscellaneous writings. 

its shades, as Shakspeare has drawn it. Not so is it with 
our author ; his spells have manifest hold on himself, and, 
therefore, they are very potent with the spirits of his readers. 
No prophetic intimation in his works is ever suffered to fail. 
The spirit which appears to Fergus — the astronomical pre- 
dictions of Guy Marmering — the eloquent cui'ses, and more 
eloquent blessings, of Meg Merrilies — the dying denuncia- 
tion of Mucklewrath — the old prophecy in the Bride of 
Lammermuir — aU are fulfilled to the very letter. The high 
and joyous spirits of Kennedy are observed by one of the by- 
standers as intimations of his speedy fate. We are far from 
disapproving of these touches of the super-human, for they 
are made to blend harmoniously with the freshest hues of 
life, and \vithout destroying its native colouring, give to it a 
more solemn tinge. But we cannot extend ouiL, indulgence 
to the seer in the Legend of Montrose, or the Lady of Ave- 
nel, in the Monastery ; where the spii'its of another world 
do not cast their shadowings on tliis, but stalk forth in open 
light, and " in form as palpable " as any of the mortal cha- 
racters. In works of passion, fairies and ghosts can scarcely 
be " simple products of the common day," without destroy- 
ing all harmony in our perceptions, and bringing the w^hole 
into discredit with the imagination as well as the feelings. 
Fairy tales are among the most exquisite things in the world, 
and so are delineations of humanity like those of our author ; 
but they can never be blended without debasing the foi'mer 
into chUl substances, or refining the latter into airy nothings. 
We shall avoid the fruitless task of dwelling on the de- 
fects of this author, on the general insipidity of his lovers, on 
the want of skill in the development of his plots, on the 
clumsiness of his prefatory introductions, or the mipotence 
of many of his conclusions. He has done his country and 
his nature no ordinary service. He has brought romance 
almost into our own times, and made the nobleness of hu- 
manity familiar to our daily thoughts. He has enriched his- 
tory to us by opening such varied and delicious vistas to our 
gaze, beneath the range of its loftier events and more public 
characters. May his intellectual treasuiy prove exhaustless 
as the purse of Fortunatus, and may he dip into it unsparing- 
ly for the delight and the benefit of his species ! 



35 



GODWIN. 

[New Monthly Magazine.] 

Mr. Godwin is the most original — not only of living 
novelists — but of living writers in prose. There are, in- 
deed, very few authors of any age who are so clearly en- 
titled to the praise of having produced works, the first peru- 
sal of which is a signal event in man's internal history. His 
genius is by far the most extraordinary, which the great 
shaking of nations and of principles — the French revolution — 
impelled and directed in its progress. English literature, at 
the period of that marvellous change, had become sterile; the 
rich luxuriance which once overspread its surface, had gra- 
dually declined into thin and scattered productions' of feeble 
gi'owth and transient duration. The fearful convulsion 
which, agitated the world of politics and of morals, tore 
up this shaUow and exhausted surface — disclosed vast trea- 
sures which had been concealed for centuries — burst open 
the secret springs of imagination and of thought — and left, 
instead of the smooth and weary plain, a region of deep 
valleys and of shapeless hills, of new cataracts and of awful 
abysses, of spots blasted into everlasting barrenness, and re- 
gions of deepest and richest soil. Om" author partook in the 
first enthusiasm of the spirit-stirring season — in " its pleasant 
exercise of hope and joy " — in much of its speculative ex- 
travagance, but in none of its practical excesses. He was 
roused not into action but into thought; and the high and 
undying energies of his soul, unwasted on vain efforts for 
the actual regeneration of man, gathered strengtli in those 
pure fields of meditation to which they were limited. The 
power which might have ruled the disturbed nations with 



3b TALFOURD S MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS. 

the wildest, directed only to the creation of high theories and 
of marvellous tales, imparted to its works a stern reality, 
and a moveless grandeur which never could spring from 
mere fantasy. His works are not like those which a man, 
who is endued with a deep sense of beauty, or a rare faculty 
of observation, or a sportive wit, or a breathing eloquence, 
may fabricate as the "idle business" of his life, as the 
means of profit or of fame. They have more in them of acts 
than of writings. They are the living and the immortal 
deeds of a man who must have been a great political ad- 
venturer had he not been an author. There is in " Caleb 
Williams " alone the material — the real burning energy — 
which might have animated a hundred schemes for the weal 
or wo of the species. 

No writer of fictions has ever succeeded so strikingly as 
Mr. Godwin, with so little adventitious aid. His works are 
neither gay creatures of the element, nor pictures of external 
life — they derive not their charm from the delusions of fancy, 
or the familiarities of daily habitude — and are as destitute of 
the fascinations of light satire and felicitous delineation of 
society, as they are of the magic of the Arabian Tales. His 
style has " no figures and no fantasies," but is simple and 
austere. Yet his novels have a power wliich so enthralls us, 
that we half doubt, when we read them in youth, whether 
all our experience is not a dream, and these the only reali- 
ties. He lays bare to us the innate might and majesty of 
man. He takes the simplest and most ordinary emotions of 
our nature, and makes us feel the springs of delight or of 
agony which they contain, the stupendous force which lies 
hid within them, and the sublime mysteries with which they 
are connected. He exhibits the naked wrestle of the pas- 
sions in a vast solitude, where no object of material beauty 
disturbs our attention from the august spectacle, and where 
the least beating of the heart is audible in the depth of the 
stillness. His works endow the abstractions of Ufe with 
more of real presence, and make us more intensely con- 
scious of existence, than any others with which we are ac- 
quainted. They give us a new feeling of the capacity of 
our nature for action or for suffering, make the currents of 
our blood mantle within us, and our bosoms heave with in- 
distinct desires for the keenest excitements and the strangest 



GOD W IX. 37 

ixrils. We feel as though we could live years m moments 
of energetic life, while we sympathize with his breathing 
characters. In things which before appeared indifferent, we 
discern som'ces of the fullest delight or of the most intense 
anguish. The healthful breatliings of the common air seem 
instinct with an unspeakable rapture. The most ordinary 
habits which link one season of life to another become the 
awakeners of thoughts and of remembrances " which do often 
lie too deep for tears." The nicest disturbances of the imagi- 
nation make the inmost fibres of the being quiver with ago- 
nies. Passions which have not usually been thought worthy 
to agitate the soul, now first seem to have their own ardent 
beatings, and their tumultuous joys. We seem capable of a 
more vivid life than we have ever before felt or dreamed of, 
and scarcely wonder that he who could thus give us a new 
sense of our own vitality, should have imagined that mind 
might become omnipotent over matter, and that he was able, 
by an effort of the will, to become corporeally immortal ! 

The intensity of passion which is manifested in the novels 
of Godwin is of a very different kind from that which burns 
in the poems of a noble bard, whom he has been sometimes 
erroneously supposed to resemble. The former sets before 
us mightiest realities in clear vision ; the latter embodies the 
pliantoms of a feverish dream. The strength of Godwin is 
the pure energy of unsophisticated nature ; that of Lord 
Byron is the fury of disease. The grandeur of the last is 
derived from its- transitoriness ; that of the first from its 
eternal essence. The emotion in the poet receives no incon- 
siderable part of its force from its rebound from the dark 
rocks and giant barriers which seem to confine its rage 
within narrow boundaries ; the feeling in the novelist is in 
its own natural current deep and resistless. The persons of 
the bard feel intensely, because they soon shall feel no more ; 
those of the novelist glow, and kindle, and agonize, because 
they shall never perish. In the works of both, guilt is often 
associated with sublime energy ; but how dissimilar are the 
impressions which they leave on the spirit ! Lord Byron 
strangely blends the moral degradation with the intellectual 
majesty ; so that goodness appears tame, and crime only is 
honoured and exalted. Godwin, on the other hand, only 
teaches us bitterly to mourn the e\il which has been cast on 

4* 



38 TALFOURD S MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS. 

a noble nature, and to regard the energy of the character 
not as inseparably linked with vice, but as destined ultimate- 
ly to subdue it. He makes us eveiy where feel that crime 
is not the native heritage, but the accident, of the species of 
wliich we are members. He impresses us with the immor- 
tality of \ij'tue ; and while he leaves us painfully to regret 
the stains which the most gifted and energetic characters 
contract amidst the pollutions of tune, he inspires us with 
hope that these shall pass away for ever. We di'ink in vn- 
shaken confidence the good and the true, wliich is ever of 
more value than hatred or contempt for the evil ! 

" Caleb Williams," the earliest, is also the most popiilar 
of our author's romances, not because his latter works have 
been less rich in sentiment and passion, but because they 
are, for the most part, confined to the development of single 
characters ; while in this there is the opposition and death- 
grapple of two beings, each endowed with poignant sensibi- 
lities and quenchless energy. There is no work of fiction 
which more rivets the attention — no ti'agedy which exhibits 
a struggle more sublime, or sufFeruigs more intense, than 
this ; yet to produce the effect, no complicated machinery is 
employed, but the springs of action are few and simple. 
The motives are at once common and elevated, and are 
purely intellectual, without appearing for an instant inade- 
quate to their mighty issues. Curiosity, for instance, which 
generally seems a low and ignoble motive for scrutinizing 
the secrets of a man's life, here seizes with strange fiscination 
on a gentle and ingenuous spirit, and supplies it \\ith excite- 
ment as fervid,, and snatches of delight as precious and as 
fearftil, as those feelings create wliich we are accustomed to 
regard as alone worthy to enrapture or to agitate. The in- 
vokmtary recmTcnce by Williams to the string of frenzy in 
the soul of one whom he would die to serve — the workings 
of his tortures on the heart of Falkland till they wring con- 
fidence from him — and the net thenceforth spread over the 
path of the youth like an invisible spell by his agonized mas- 
ter, surprising as they are, arise fi-om causes so natural and 
so adequate, that the imagination at once owns them as au- 
thentic. The mild beauty of Falldand's natural character, 
contrasted with the guilt he has incurred, and his severe pur- 
pose to lead a long life of agony and crime, that liis fame 



GODWIN. 39 

may be preserved spotless, is affecting almost without ex- 
ample. There is a rude grandeur even in the gigantic op- 
pressor Tyrel, which all his disgusting enormities cannot de- 
stroy. Independently of the master-spring of interest, there 
are in this novel individual passages which can never be for- 
gotten. Such are the fearful flight of Emily with her ra- 
visher — the escape of Caleb Williams from prison, and his 
enthusiastic sensations on the recovery of his freedom, though 
wounded and almost dying without help — and the scenes of 
his peril among the robbers. Perhaps this work is the grandest 
ever constructed out of the simple elements of humanity, 
without any extrinsic aid from imagination, wit, or me- 
mory. 

In " St. Leon," Mr. Godwin has sought the stores of the 
supernatural ; — but the " metaphysical aid " which he has 
condescended to accept is not adapted to carry him farther 
from nature, but to ensure a more intimate and wide com- 
munion with its mysteries. His hero does not acquire the 
philosopher's stone and the elixir of immortality to furnish 
out for himself a dainty solitude, wliere he may dwell soothed 
with the music of his own undying thoughts, and rejoicing 
in his severance from his frail and transitory fellows. Apart 
from those among whom he moves, his yearnings for sympa- 
thy become more intense as it eludes him, and his percei> 
tions of the mortal lot of his species become more vivid and 
more fond, as he looks on it from an intellectual eminence 
which is alike unassailable to death and to joy. Even in this 
work, where the author has to conduct a perpetual miracle, 
his exceeding earnestness makes it difficult to believe him a 
fabulist. Listen to his hero, as he expatiates in the first con- 
sciousness of his high prerogatives : 

" I surveyed my limbs, all the joints and articulations of 
my frame, with curiosity and astonishment. What! ex- 
claimed I, these limbs, this complicated but brittle frame shall 
last for ever ! No disease shall attack it ; no pain shaU seize 
it ; death shall withhold from it for ever his abhorred grasp ! 
Perpetual vigour, perpetual activity, perpetual youth, shall 
take up their abode with me ! Time shall generate in me no 
decay, shall not add a wrinkle to my brow, or convert a 
hair of my head to gray ! This body was formed to die ; 
this edifice to crumble into dust ; the principles of corruption 



40 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

and mortality are mixed up in eveiy atom of my frame. But 
for me the laws of nature are suspended, the eternal wheels 
of the universe roll backward ; I am destined to be tri- 
umphant over Fate and Time ! Months, years, cycles, cen- 
turies ! To me these are but as indivisible moments. I shall 
never become old ; I shall always be, as it were, in the porch 
and infancy of existence ; no lapse of years shall subtract 
any thing from my future duration. I was born under Louis 
the Twelfth ; the life of Francis the First now threatens a 
speedy termination ; he will be gathered to his fathers, and 
Henry, his son, will succeed him. But what are princes, and 
kings, and generations of men to me ! I shall become fa- 
miliar with the rise and fall of empires ; in a little while the 
very name of France, my country, will perish from off the 
face of the earth, and men will dispute about the situation 
of Paris, as they dispute about the site of ancient Nineveh, 
and Babylon, and Troy. Yet I shall stOl be young. I shall 
take my most distant posterity by the hand ; I shall accom- 
pany them in their career ; and, when they are worn out 
and exhausted, shall shut up the tomb over them, and set 
forward." 

This is a strange tale, but it teUs like a ti'ue one ! When 
we first read it, it seemed as though it had itself the power 
of alchemy to steal into our veins, and render us capable of 
resisting death and age. For a short — too short ! a space, 
all time seemed opened to our personal view — we felt no 
longer as of yesterday ; but the grandest parts of our know- 
ledge of the past seemed mightiest recollections of a far-off 
childhood. 

" The wars we too remembered of Kingr Nine, 
And old Assaracus, and Ibycus diviiie." 

This was the happy extravagance of an hour ; but it is 
ever the peculiar power of Mr. Godwin to make us feel that 
there is something within us which cannot perish ! 

" Fleetwood " has less of our author's characteristic energy 
than any other of his works. The earlier parts of it, indeed, 
where the formation of the hero's character, in free rovings 
amidst the wildest of nature's scenery, is traced, have a deep 
beauty which reminds us of some of the holiest imagina- 



GODWIN. 41 

tions of Wordsworth. But when the author would follow 
him into the world — through the froUcs of college, the dissi- 
pations of Paris, and the petty disquietudes of matrimonial 
life — we feel that he has condescended too far. He is no 
graceful trifler ; he cannot work in these frail and low mate- 
rials. There is, however, one scene in this novel most wild 
and fearful. This is where Fleetwood, who has long brooded 
in anguish over the idea of his wife's falsehood, keeps strange 
festival on his wedding-day — when, having procured a wax- 
en image of her whom he believes perfidious, and dressed a 
filghtful figure in a uniform to represent her imagined para- 
mour, he locks himself in an apartment with these horrid coun- 
terfeits, a supper of cold meats, and a barrel-organ, on which he 
plays the tunes often heard from the pair he believes guilty, 
till his silent agony gives place to delirium, he gazes around 
with glassy eyes, sees strange sights and dallies with fright- 
ful mockeries, and at last tears the dreadful spectacle to 
atoms, and is seized with furious madness. We do not re- 
member, even in the works of our old dramatists, any thing of 
its kind comparable to this voluptuous fantasy of despair. 

" Mandeville " has all the power of its author's earliest 
writings ; but its main subject — the development of an en- 
grossing and maddening hatred — is not one which can ex- 
cite human sympathy. There is, however, a bright relief to 
the gloom of the picture, in the angelic disposition of Clifford, 
and the sparkling loveliness of Henrietta, who appears " full 
of life, and splendour and joy." AH Mr. Godwin's female 
heroines have a certain airmess and radiance — a visionary 
grace, peculiar to them, which may at first surprise by their 
contrast to the robustness of his masculine creations. But 
it will perhaps be found that the more deeply man is con- 
versant with the energies of his own heart, the more will he 
seek for opposite qualities in woman. 

Of all Mr. Godwin's writings the choicest in point of style is 
a little essay " on Sepulchres." Here his philosophic thought, 
subdued and sweetened by the contemplation of mortality, 
is breathed forth in the gentlest tone. His " Political Jus- 
tice," with aU the extravagance of its fii-st edition, or with 
all the inconsistencies of its last, is a noble work, replete 
with lofty principle and thought, and often leading to the 
most striking results by a process of the severest reasoning. 



42 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

Man, indeed, cannot and ought not to act iiniversally on its 
leading doctrine — that we should in all things seek only the 
greatest amount of good without favour or affection ; but it 
is at least better than the low selfishness of the world. It 
breathes also a mild and cheerful faith in the progressive ad- 
vances and the final perfection of the species. It was this 
good hope for humanity which excited Mr. Malthus to affirm, 
that there is in the constitution of man's nature a perpetual 
barrier to any extensive improvement in his eartlily condi- 
tion. After long interval, Mr. Godwin has announced a 
reply to this popular system — a system which reduces man 
to an animal, governed by blind instinct, and destitute 
of reason, sentiment, imagination, and hope, whose most 
mysterious instincts are matter of calculation to be esti- 
mated by rules of geometrical series ! — Most earnestly do 
we desire to witness his success. To our minds, indeed, he 
sufficiently proves the falsehood of his adversary's doctrines 
by his own intellectual character. His works are, in them- 
selves, evidences that there is power and energy in man 
which have never yet been fully brought into action, and 
which were not given to the species in vain. He has lived 
himself in the soft and mild light of those peaceful years, 
which he believes shall hereafter bless the world, when force 
and selfishness shall disappear, and love and joy shall be the 
unerring lights of the species. 



MATURIN, 43 



MATURIN. 

[New Monthly Magazine.] 

The author of Montorio and of Bertram is unquestiona- 
bly a person gifted with no ordinary powers. He has a 
quick sensibility — a penetrating and intuitive acuteness — 
and an unrivalled vigour and felicity of language, which enar 
Vjle him at one time to attain the happiest condensation of 
thought, and at others to pour forth a stream of eloquence 
rich, flowing, and deep, chequered with images of delicate 
loveliness, or darkened by broad shadows cast from objects 
of stern and adamantine majesty. Yet, in common vidth 
many other potent sphits of the present time, he faUs to ex- 
cite within us any pure and lasting sympathy. We do not, 
on reading his works, feel that we have entered on a pre- 
cious and imperishable treasure. They dazzle, they delight, 
they surprise, and they weary us — we lay them down with 
a vague admiration for the author, and try to shake off their 
influence as we do the impressions of a feverish dream. It 
is not thus that we receive the productions of genuine and 
holy bards — of Shakspeare, of MUton, of Spencer, or of 
Wordsworth — whose far-reaching imaginations come home 
to our hearts, who become the companions of our sweetest 
moods, and with whom we long to " set up our everlasting 
rest." Their creations are oft;en nearest to our hearts when 
they are farthest removed from the actual experience of our 
lives. We travel on the bright tracts which their genius re- 
veals to us as safely and with as sure and fond a tread as along 
the broad highway of the world. When the regions which 
they set before us are the most distant from our ordinaiy 
perceptions, we yet seem at home in them, their wonders 
are strangely familiar to us, and the scene, overspread with 



44 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

a consecrating and lovely lustre, breaks on us, not as a wild 
fantastic novelty, but as a revived recollection of some holier 
life, which the soul rejoices thus delightfully to recognise. 

Not thus do the works of Mr. Maturin — original and sur- 
prising as they often are — affect us. They have no fibres 
in them which entwine with the heartstrings, and which keep 
their hold until the golden chords of our sensibility and ima- 
gination themselves are broken. They pass by us some- 
times like gorgeous phantoms, sometimes like " horrible 
shadows and unreal mockeries," which seem to elude us 
because they are not of us. When we follow him closest, 
he introduces us into a region where all is xmsatisfactory 
and unreal — the chaos of principles, fancies, and passions — 
where mightiest elements are yet floating without order, 
where appearances between substance and shadow perpetu- 
ally harass us, where visionary forms beckon us through pain- 
ful avenues, and on approach sink into despicable realities, and 
piUars which looked ponderous and immoveable at a distance, 
melt at the touch into air, and are found to be only masses 
of vapour and of cloud. He neither raises us to the skies, 
nor " brings his angels down," but astonishes by a phantas- 
magoria of strange appearances, sometimes scarcely distin- 
guishable in member, joint, or Mmb, but which when most 
clearly defined come not near us, nor claim kindred by a 
warm and living touch. This chill remoteness from huma- 
nity is attended by a general want of harmony and propor- 
tion in the whole — by a wild excm'siveness of sensibility and 
thought — which add to its ungenial influence, and may be 
traced to the same causes. 

If we were disposed to refer these defects to one general 
source, we should attribute them to the want of an imagina- 
tion proportionate to sensibility and to mastery of language 
in the writer's mind, or to his comparative neglect of that 
most divine of human faculties. It is edif)dng to observe 
how completely the nature of this power is mistaken by 
many who profess to decide on matters of taste. They re- 
gard it as something wUd and irregular, the reverse of truth, 
nature, and reason, which is divided from insanity only by 
" a thin partition," and which, uncontrolled by sterner pow- 
ers, forms the essence of madness. They think it abounds 
in speeches crowded with tawdry and superfluous epithets — 



SIATURIN. 45 

in the discources of Dr. Chalmers, because they deal so large- 
ly in infinite obscurities that there is no room for a single 
image — and in the poems of Lord Byron, because his cha- 
racters are so unlike all beings which have ever existed. 
Far otherwise thought Spencer when he represented the 
laurel as the meed — not of poets insane — but " of poets 
SAGE." True imagination is, indeed, the deep eye of the 
profoundest wisdom. It is opposed to reason, not in its re- 
sults, but in its process ; it does not demonstrate truth only 
because it sees it. There are vast and eternal realities in 
our nature, which reason proves to exist — which sensibility 
" feels after and finds " — and which imagination beholds in 
clear and solemn vision, and pictures with a force and vivid- 
ness which assures their existence even to ungifted mor- 
tals. Its subjects are the true, the universal, and the last- 
ing. Its distinguishing property has no relation to dimness, 
or indistinctness, or dazzling radiance, or turbulent confused- 
ness, but is the power of setting all things in the clearest 
light, and bringing them into perfect harmony. Like the 
telescope it does not only magnify celestial objects, but biings 
them nearer to us. Of all the faculties it is the severest and 
the most unerring. Reason may beguile with splendid so- 
phistry ; sensibility may fatally misguide ; but if imagina- 
tion exists at all, it must exhibit only the real. A mirror can 
no more reflect an object which is not before it, than the ima- 
gination can show the false and the baseless. By revealing 
to us its results in the language of imagery, it gives to them 
almost the evidence of the senses. If the analogy between 
an idea and its physical exponent is not complete, there is no 
effort of imagination — if it is, the truth is seen, and felt, and 
enjoyed, like the colom's and forms of the material universe. 
And this effect is produced not only with the greatest possi- 
ble certainty, but in the fewest possible words. Yet even 
when this is done — when the illustration is not only the most 
enchanting, but the most convincing, of proofs — the writer is 
too often contemptuously depreciated as flower*^, by the ad- 
vocates of mere reason. Strange chance ! that he who has 
embodied truth in a living image, and thus rendered it visi- 
ble to the intellectual perceptions, should be confounded with 
those who conceal all sense and meaning beneath mere ver- 
biage and fragments of disjointed metaphor ! 
5 



46 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

Thus the products of genuine imagination are " all com- 
pact." It is, indeed, only the compactness and harmony of 
its pictures which give to it its name or its value. To dis- 
cover that there are mighty elements in humanity — to ob- 
sei've that there are bright hues and graceful forms in the ex- 
ternal world — and to know the fitting names of these — is all 
which is required to furnish out a rich stock of spurious ima- 
gination to one who aspires to the claim of a wild and irre- 
gular genius. For him a dictionary is a sufficient guide to 
Parnassus. It is only by representing those intellectual ele- 
ments in their finest harmony — by combining those hues and 
forms in the fairest pictures — or by making the glorious 
combinations of external things the symbols of truth and 
moral beauty — that imagination really puts forth its divine 
energies. We do not charge on Mr. Maturin that he is des- 
titute of power to do this, or that he does not sometunes di- 
rect it to its purest uses. But his sensibOity is so much 
more quick and subtle, than his authority over his impressions 
is complete ; the flow of his words so much more copious 
and facile than the throng of images on his muid ; that he 
too often confounds us with imnumbered snatches and im- 
perfect gleams of beauty, or astonishes us by an outpouring 
of eloquent bombast, instead of enriching our souls with dis- 
tinct and vivid conceptions. Like many other writers of the 
present time — especially of his own coimtry — he does not 
wait until the stream which yoimg enthusiasm sets loose 
shall work itself clear, and calnrly reflect the highest heavens. 
His creations bear any stamp but that of truth and soberness. 
He sees the glories of the external world, and the mightier 
wonders of man's moral and intellectual nature, with a quick 
sense, and feels them with an exquisite sympathy — but he 
gazes on them in " very drunkenness of heart," and becomes 
giddy with his own indistinct emotions, till all things seem 
confounded in a gay bacchanalian dance, and assmne strange 
fantastic combinations ; which, when transferred to his works, 
startle for a moment, but do not produce that " sober cer- 
tainty of waking bliss" which real imagination assures. 
There are two qualities necessaiy to form a truly imagina- 
tive writer — a quicker and an intenser feeling than ox'dinary 
men possess for the beautiful and the sublime, and the calm 



MATURIN. 47 

and meditative power of regulating, comliining, and ar- 
ranging its own impressions, and of distinctly bodying forth 
tlie final results of this harmonizing process. Where the 
first of these properties exists, the last is, perhaps, attainable 
by that deep and careful study which is more necessary to a 
poet than to any artist who works in mere earthly mate- 
rials. But this study many of the most gifted of modern 
writers unhappily disdain ; and if mere sale and popularity 
are their objects, they are right; for in the multitude the 
wild, the disjointed, the incoherent, and the paradoxical, 
which are but for a moment, necessarily awaken more im- 
mediate sensation than the pure and harmonious, which are 
destined to last while nature and the soul shall endure. 

It is easy to perceive how it is that the imperfect creations 
of men of sensibility and of eloquence strike and dazzle 
more at the first, than the completest works of truly imagi- 
native poets. A perfect statue — a temple fashioned with ex- 
actest art — appear less, at a mere glance, from the nicety of 
their proportions. The vast majority of readers, in an age 
like ours, have neither leisure nor taste to seek and ponder 
over the effusions of holiest genius. They must be awakened 
into admiration by something new, and strange, and sur- 
prising ; and the more remote from their daily thoughts and 
habits — the more fantastical and daring — the effort, the more 
will it please, because the more it will rouse them. Thus a 
man who will exhibit some impossible combination of heroism 
and meanness — of virtue and of vice — of heavenly love and 
infernal malignity and baseness — wOl receive their wonder 
and their praise. They call this power, which is in reality 
the most pitiable weakness. It is because a writer has not 
imagination enough to exhibit in new forms the universal 
qualities of nature and the soul, that he takes some strange 
and horrible anomaly as his theme. Incompetent to the 
divine task of rendermg beauty " a simple product of the 
common day," he tries to excite emotion by disclosing the 
foulest recess of the foulest heart. As he strikes only one 
feeling, and that coarsely and ungently, he appears to wield 
a mightier weapon than he whose harmoniovis beauty sheds 
its influence equably over the whole of the sympathies. That 
which touches with strange commotion, and mere \'iolence 



48 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

on the heart, but leaves no image there, seems to vulgar 
spirits more potent than the faculty which applies to it all 
perfect figures, and leaves them to sink gently into its fleshly 
tablets to remain there for ever. Yet, surely, that which 
merely shakes is not equal even in power to that which im- 
presses. The wild disjointed part may be more amazing to 
a diseased perception than the well-compacted whole ; but it 
is the nice balancing of properties, the soft blending of shades, 
and the all-pervading and reconciling light shed over the har- 
monious imagination, which take off the sense of rude 
.^I'rength that alone is discernible in its naked elements. Is 
there more of heavenly power in seizing fi-om among the 
tmnult of chaos and eternal night, strange and fearful abor- 
tions, or in brooding over the vast abyss, and making it 
pregnant Avith life, and glory, and joy ] Is it the higher ex- 
ercise of human faculties to represent the fiightful discord- 
ances of passion, or to show the grandeurs of humanity in 
that majestic repose which is at once an anticipation and a 
proof of its eternal destiny 1 Is transitory vice — the mere 
accident of the species — and those vices too which are the 
rarest and most apaUing of all its accidents — or that good 
which is its essence and which never can perish, fittest for 
the uses of the bard ? Shall he desire to haunt the cav.es 
which lie lowest on the banks of Acheron, or the soft bow- 
ers watered by " Siloa's brook that flows fast by the oracle 
of God]" 

Mr. Maturin gave decisive indications of a morbid sensi- 
bility and a passionate eloquence out-running his imaginative 
faculties, in the commencement of his literary career. His 
first romance, the " Family of Montorio," is one of the wildest 
and strangest of all " false creations proceeding from the heat- 
oppressed brain." It is for the most part a tissue of magnifi- 
cent yet unappallhig horrors. Its great faults as a work of 
amusement, are the long and unrelieved series of its gloomy 
and marvellous scenes, and the unsatisfactory explanation of 
them all, as arising from mere human agency. This last 
error he borrowed fi-om Mrs. Ratcliffe, to whom he is far 
inferior in the economy of terrors, but whom he greatly trans- 
cends in the dark majesty of his style. As Ms events are far 
more wild and wondrous than hers, so his development is 



MATURIN. 49 

necessarily far more incredible and vexatious. There is, 
in this story, a being whom we are long led to believe is not 
of this world — who speaks in the tones of the sepulchre, glides 
through the thickest walls, haunts two distant brothers in their 
most secret retirements through their strange wanderings, 
leads one of his victims to a scene which he believes infernal, 
and there terrifies him with sights of the wildest magic — and 
who after all this, and after really vindicating to the fancy his 
claim to the supernatural by the fearful cast of his language — 
is discovered to be a low impostor, who has produced all by 
the aid of poor tricks and secret passages ! Where is the 
policy of this f Unless by his power, the author had given a 
credibility to magic through four-fifths of his work, it never 
could have excited any feeling but that of impatience or of 
scorn. And when we have surrendered ourselves willingly 
to his guidance — when we have agreed to believe impossibili- 
ties at his bidding — why does he reward our credence with 
derision, and tacitly reproach us for not having detected his 
idle mockeries ] After all, too, the reason is no more satis- 
fied than the fancy ; for it would be a thousand times easier 
to believe m the possibility of spiritual influences, than in a 
long chain of mean contrivances, no one of which could ever 
succeed. The first is but one wonder, and that one to which 
our nature has a strange leaning ; the last are numberless, 
and have nothing to reconcile them to our thoughts. In sub- 
mitting to the former we contentedly lay aside our reasoning 
faculties ; in approaching the latter our reason itself is appealed 
to at the moment when it is insulted. Great talent is, how- 
ever, unquestionably exhibited in this singular story. A stern 
justice breathes solemnly through all the scenes in the devoted 
castle. "Fate sits on its dark battlements, and frowns." 
There is a spirit of deep philosophy in the tracing of the gra- 
dual influence of patricidal thoughts on the hearts of the 
brothers, which would finally exhibit the danger of dallying 
with evil fancies, if the subject were not removed so far 
from all ordinary temptations. Some of the scenes of hor- 
ror, if they were not accumulated until they wear out their 
impression, would produce an effect inferior to none in 
the works of Ratcliile or of Lewis. The scene in whiclk 
Filippo escapes from the assassins, deserves to be ranked 
with the robber-scenes in the Monk and Count Fathom. The 

5* 



50 talpourd's miscellaneous writings. 

diction of the whole is rich and energetic — not, indeed, flow- 
ing in a calm beauty which may glide on for ever — but im- 
petuous as a moimtain torrent, which, though it speedily 
passes away, leaves behind it no common spoils — 

>' Depositing upon the silent shore 
Of memory, images and gentle thoughts 
Which cannot die, and will not be destroyed." 

" The Wild Irish Boy" is, on the whole, inferior to Monto- 
rio, though it served to give a farther glimpse into the vast 
extent of the author's resources. " The Milesian" is, perhaps, 
the most extrordinary of his romances. There is a bleak 
and misty grandeur about it, which, in spite of its glaring de- 
fects, sustains for it an abiding-place in the soul. Yet never, 
perhaps, was there a more unequal production — alternately 
exhibiting the grossest plagiarism and the v/Udest originality 
— now swelling into offensive bombast, and anon disclosing 
the simplest majesty of nature, fluctuating with inconstant 
ebb between the sublime and the ridiculous, the delicate and 
the revolting. " Women, or Pour et Contre," is less unequal, 
but we think, on the whole, less interestmg than the author's 
earlier productions. He should not venture, as in this work 
he has done, into the ordinary paths of existence. His per- 
sons, if not cast in a high and heroic mould, have no stamp 
of reality upon them. The reader of this work, though often 
dazzled and delighted, has a painful feeling that the charac- 
ters are shadowy and unreal, like that which is experienced 
in dreams. They are unpleasant and tantalizing likenesses, 
approaching sufficiently near to the true to make us feel what 
they would be and lament what they are. Eva, Zaira, the 
maniac mother, and the group of Calvinists, have all a re- 
semblance to nature — and sometimes to nature at its most 
passionate or its sweetest — but they look as at a distance 
from us, as though between us and them there were some veil, 
or discolouring medium, to baffle and perplex us. StiU the 
novel is a splendid work ; and gives the feeling that its author 
has " riches fineless" in store, which might delight as well 
as astonish the world, if he would cease to be their slave, and 
become their master. 

In the narrow boundaries of the Drama the redundancies 



MATURIN. 51 

of Mr. Maturin have been necessarily corrected. In this 
walk, indeed, there seems reason to believe that his genius 
would have grown purer, as it assumed a severer attitude ; 
and that he would have sought to attain high and true pas- 
sion, and lofty imagination, had he not been seduced by the 
admiration unhappily lavished on Lord Byron's writings. 
The feverish strength, the singular blending of good and evil, 
and the spirit of moral paradox, displayed in these works, 
were congenial with his tastes, and aroused in him the desire 
to imitate. " Bertram," his first and most successful tragedy, 
is a fine piece of writing, wrought out of a nauseous tale, and 
rendered popular, not by its poetical beauties, but by the vio- 
lence with which it jars on tlie sensibilities, and awakens the 
sluggish heart from its lethargy. " Manuel," its successor, 
feebler, though in the same style, excited little attention, and 
less sympathy. In " Fredolpho," the author as though he 
had resolved to sting the public into a sense of his power, 
crowded together characters of such matchless depravity, 
sentiments of such a demoniac cast, and events of such gra- 
tuitous horror, that the moral taste of the audience, injured as 
it had been by the success of similar works, felt the insult, 
and rose up indignantly against it. Yet in this piece were 
passages of a soft and mournful beauty, breathing a tender 
air of romance, which led us bitterly to regret that the poet 
chose to " embower the spirit of a fiend, in mortal paradise 
of such sweet " song. 

We do, not, however, despair even yet of the regeneration 
of our author's taste. There has always been something of 
humanity to redeem those works in which his genius has 
been most perverted. There is no deliberate sneering at the 
disinterested and the pure — no cold derision of human hopes 
— no deadness to the lonely and the loving, in liis writings. 
His error is that of a hasty trusting to feverish impulses, not 
of a malignant design. There is far more of the soul of 
goodness in his evil things, than in those of the noble bard 
whose example has assisted to mislead him. He does 
not, indeed, know so well how to place his unnatural cha- 
racters in imposing attitudes — to work up his morbid sensi- 
bilities for sale — or to " buUd the lofty rhyme " on shattered 
principles, and the melancholy fragments of hope. But his 
diction is more rich, his fancy is more fruitful, and his com- 



52 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

pass of thought and feeling more extensive. Happy shall we 
be to see him doing justice at last to his powers — studying 
not to excite the wonder of a few barren readers or specta- 
tors, but to live in the hearts of the good of future times — 
and, to this high end, leaving discord for harmony, the start- 
ling for the true, and the evil which, however potent, is but 
for a season, for the pure and the holy which endui^e for 
ever! 



RYMER ON TRAGEDY. 53 



REVIEW OF RYMER'S WORKS ON 
TRAGEDY. 

[Retrospective Review.] 

These are very curious and edifying works. The author 
(who was the compiler of the Feeder a) appears to have been 
a man of considerable acuteness, maddened by a furious 
zeal for the honour of tragedy. He lays down the most fan- 
tastical rules for the composition which he chiefly reverses, 
and argues on them as " truths of holy writ." He criticizes 
Shakspeare as one invested with authority to sit in judgment 
on his powers, and passes on him as decisive a sentence of 
condemnation, as ever was awarded against a friendless poet 
by a Reviewer. We will select a few passages from his 
work, which may be consolatory to modern authors, and 
useful to modern critics. 

The chief weight of Mr. Rymer's critical vengeance is 
wreaked on Ol hello. After a slight sketch of the plot, he pro- 
ceeds at once to speak of the moral, which he seems to re- 
gard as of the fii'St importance in tragedy. 

" Whatever rubs or difficulty may stick on the bark, the 
moral use of this fable is very instructive. F''irst, this may be 
a caution to all maidens of quality, how, without their parents' 
consent, they run away with blackamoors. Secondly, this 
may be a warning to all good wives, that they look well to 
their linen. Thirdly, this may be a lesson to husbands, that 
before their jealousy be tragical, the proofs may be mathe- 
matical." 

Our author then proceeds happily to sathize Othello's 



54 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

colour. He observes, that " Shakspeare was accountable 
both to the eyes and to the ears." On this point we think 
liis objection is not without reason. We agree with an ex- 
cellent modern critic in the opinion, that though a reader may 
sink Othello's colour in his mind, a spectator can scarcely 
avoid losing the mind in the colour. But Mr. Rymer pro- 
ceeds thus to characterize Othello's noble account to the 
Senate of his whole course of love. 

" This was the charm, this was the philtre, the love-powder 
that took the daughter of this noble Venetian. TWs was suf- 
ficient to make the Blackamoor white, and reconcile all, though 
there had been a cloven foot into the bargain. A meaner wo- 
man might as soon be taken by Aqua Tetrachymagogon." 

The idea of Othello's elevation to the rank of a general, 
stings Mr. Rymer almost to madness. He regards the poet's 
offence as a kind of misprision of treason. 

" The character of the state (of Venice) is to employ 
strangers in their wars ; but shall a poet thence fancy that 
they wUl set a Negro to be their general ; or trust a Moor to 
defend them against the Tm-k? With us, a Blackamoor 
might rise to be a trumpeter, but Shakspeare would not have 
him less than a lieutenant-general. — With us, a Moor might 
marry some little di'ab or small-coal wench; Shakspeare 
would provide him the daughter and heir of some great lord, 
or privy counsellor ; and all the town should reckon it a very 
suitable match : yet the English are not bred up with that 
hatred and aversion to the Moors as the Venitians, who suf- 
fer by a perpetual hostility from them, 

" Littora littoribus contraria.''^ 

Our author is as severe on Othello's character, as on his 
exaltation and colour. 

" Othello is made a Venetian general. We see nothing- 
done by him, nor related concerning him, that comports with 
the condition of a general, or, indeed, of a man, unless the 
killing himself to avoid a death the law was about to inflict 



RYMER ON TRAGEDY. 55 

upon him. When his jealousy had wrought liim up to a re- 
solution of his taking revenge for the supposed injury, he sets 
lago to the fighting part to kill Cassio, and chooses himself 
to murder the silly woman his wife, that was like to make no 
resistance." 

Mr. Rymer next undertakes to resent the affront put on 
the army by the making lago a soldier. 

" But what is most intolerable is lago. He is no Blacka- 
moor soldier, so we may be sure he should be like other sol- 
diers of our acquaintance; yet never in tragedy, nor in 
comedy, nor in nature, was a soldier with his character ; — 
take it in the author's own words : 

some eternal villain, 



Some busie and insinuating' roafue. 

Some cogging, cozening slave, to get some olHce. 

"Horace describes a soldier otherwise, — Impyger, ira- 
ciindus, inexorabilis, acer. 

" Shakspeare knew his character of lago was inconsistent. 
In this very play he pronounces, 

" If thou deliver more or less tlian trutii, 
Thou art no soldier. 

" This he knew, but to entertain the audience with some- 
thing new and surprising against common sense and nature, 
he would pass upon us a close, dissembling, false, insinuating" 
rascal, instead of an open hearted, frank, plain dealing soldier, 
a character constantly worn by them for some thousands of 
years in the world." 

Against " the gentle lady married to the Moor," Mr. Ry- 
mer cherishes a most exemplary hatred. He seems to laboin* 
for terms strong enough to express the antipathy and scorn 
he bears her. The following are some of the daintiest : 

" There is nothing in the noble Desdemona, that is not 
below any country kitchen-maid with us." — " No wom;>.:t 
bred out of a pig-stye could talk so meanly." 



56 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

Yet is Mr. Rymer no less enraged at her death than at 
her life. 

" Here (he exclaims in an agony of passion) a noble Ve- 
netian lady is to be murdered by our poet, in sober sadness, 
purely for being a fool. No pagan poet but would have 
found some machine for her deliverance. Pegasus would 
have strained hard to have brought old Perseus on his back, 
time enough to rescue this Andromeda from so foul a mon- 
ster. Has our Christian poetry no generosity, no bowels? 
Ha, ha, Sii- Launcelot ! Ha, Sir George ! Will no ghost 
leave the shades for us in extremity, to save a distressed 
damsel r' 

On the expression,^'' that is, we presume, the poetiy of 
the work, Mr. Rymer does not think it necessary to dwell ; 
though he admits that " the verses rumbling in our ears, are 
of good use to help off the action." On those of Shakspeare 
he passes this summary judgment : " hi the neighing of a 
horse, or in the growling of a mastiff, there is a meaning, 
there is as lively expression, and may I say more humanity, 
than many times in the tragical flights of Shakspeare." 
Having settled this trivial point, he invites the reader "to 
step among the scenes, to observe the conduct on this tra- 
gedy." 

In examining the first scene of Olhello, our critic weightily 
reprehends the sudden and startling manner in which lago 
and Roderigo informs Brabantio of his daughter's elope- 
ment with the Moor. He regards their abruptness as an 
unpardonable violation of decorum, and by way of contrast 
to its rudeness, informs us, that 

" In former days there wont to be kept at the courts of 
princes somebody in a fool's coat, that in pure simplicity 
might let slip something, which made way for the ill news, 
and blunted the shock, which otherwise might have come too 
violent on the party." 

Mr. Rymer shows the council of Venice no quarter. He 
thus daringly scrutinizes their proceedings. 



RYMER ON TRAGEDY. 57 

" By their conduct and manner of talk, a body must strain 
hard to fancy the scene at Venice, and not rather at some of 
our Cinque ports, where the baily and his fishermen are 
knocking their heads together on account of some whale ; or 
some terrible broil on the coast. But to show them true 
Venetians, the maritime affairs stick not on their hand ; the 
public may sink or swim. They will sit up all night to hear 
a Doctors' Commons matrimonial cause ; and have the merits 
of the cause laid open to 'em, that they may decide it be- 
fore they stir. What can be pleaded to keep awake their 
attention so wonderfully." 

Here the critic enters into a fitting abuse of Othello's de- 
fence to the senate ; expresses his disgust at the " eloquence 
which kept them up all night," and his amaze at their apathy, 
notwithstanding the strangeness of the marriage. He com- 
plains, that 

" Instead of starting at the prodigy, every one is familiar 
with Desdemona, as if he were her own natural father; they 
rejoice in her good fortune, and wish their own daughters as 
hopefully married. Should the poet (he continues) have pro- 
vided such a husband for an only daughter of any peer in 
England, the Blackamoor must have changed his skin to look 
our House of Lords in the face." 

Our critic next complains, that, in the second Act, the poet 
shows the action, (he "knows not how many leagues oflT") 
in the island of C)nprus, without "our Bayes," (as he pleasantly 
denominates Shakspeare) having made any provision of 
transport ships for the audience. The first scene in Cy- 
prus is then " cut up " in a way, which might make the 
most skilful of modern reviewers turn pale with envy. 
After noticing the preliminary dialogue, Mr. Rymer observes, 
" now follows a long rabble of Jack Pudden farce between 
lago and Desdemona, that runs on with all the little plays, 
jingle, and trash, below the patience of any country kitchen 
maid with her sweet-heart. The Venetian Donna is hard 
put to it for pastime ; and this is all when they are newly got 
on shore from a dismal tempest, and when every moment she 
might expect to hear her Lord, (as she calls him,) that she 
6 



58 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

Yxms so mad after, is arrived or lost." Our author, therefore, 
accuses Shakspeare of " unhallowing the theatre, profaning 
the name of tragedy, and instead of representing men and 
manners, turning all morality, good-sense, and humanity, 
into mockery and derision." 

Mr. Rymer contends, that Desdemona's solicitations for 
Cassio were in themselves more than enough to rouse 
Othello's jealousy. "lago can now, (he observes,) only 
actum agere, and vex the audience with a nauseous repeti- 
tion." This remark introduces the following criticism on 
the celebrated scene in the third act, between Othello and 
lago, which is curious, not only as an instance of perverted 
reasoning, but as it shows, that in the performance, some 
great histrionic power must have been formerly exerted, not 
unlike the energy of which we, in witnessing this tragedy, 
have been spectators. 

" Whence comes it then, that this is the top scene ; the scene 
that raises Othello above all other tragedies at our theatres 1 
It is purely from the action ; from the mops and the mows, 
the giimace, the grins, and gesticulation. Such scenes as 
this have made all the world run after Harlequin and Scara- 
moucio. 

"The several degrees of action were amongst the an- 
cients distinguished by the cothurnus, the soccus, and the 
planipes. Had this scene been represented at Old Rome, 
Othello and lago must have quitted their buskins ; they must 
have played barefoot : for the spectators would not have 
been content without seeing their podometry ; and the jea- 
lousy work out at the very toes of them. Words, be they 
Spanish or Polish, or any inarticulate sound, have the same 
effect, they can only serve to distinguish, and, as it were, beat 
time to the action. But here we see a known language does 
wofully encumber and clog the operation ; as either forced, 
or heavy, or trifling, or incoherent, or improper, or most im- 
probable. When no words interpose to spoil the conceit, every 
one interprets, as he likes best ; so in that memorable dis- 
pute between Panurge and our English philosopher in Babe- 
lais, performed without a word speaking, the theologians, 
physicians, and surgeons, made one inference; the law- 



RYMER ON TRAGEDY. 59 

yers, civilians, and canonists, drew another conclusion more 
to their mind." 

Mr. Rymer thus objects to the superlative villainy of lago, 
on his advising Desdemona's murder. 

" lago had some pretence to be discontent with Othello and 
Cassio, and what passed hitherto was the operation of re- 
venge. Desdemona had never done him any harm; always 
kind to him, and to his wife ; was his countrywoman, a dame 
of quality. For him to abet her murder, shows nothing of a 
soldier, nothing of a man, nothing of nature in it. The ordi- 
naiy of Newgate never had the like monster to pass under 
his examination. Can it be any diversion to see a rogue 
beyond what the devil ever finished! or would it be any in- 
struction to an audience 1 lago could desire no better than 
to set Cassio and Othello, his two enemies, by the ears to- 
gether, so that he might have been revenged on them both 
at once ; and choosing for his own share the murder of 
Desdemona, he had the opportunity to play booty, and save 
the poor harmless wretch. But the poet must do every 
thing by contraries ; to surprise the audience stUl with some- 
thing horrible and prodigious, beyond any human imagina- 
tion. At this rate, he must outdo the devil, to be a poet in 
the rank with Shakspeare." 

Mr. Rymer is decorously enraged, to think that the tra- 
gedy should turn on a handkerchief " Why," he asks in 
virtuous indignation, " was not this called the tragedy of the 
handkerchief! what can be more absurd than (as Q,uintilian 
expresses it) inparvibus (sic) lilibus has tras;e.dias movere? 
We have heard of Fortunatus, his purse, and of the invisi- 
ble cloak long ago worn thread-bare, and stowed up in the 
wardrobe of obsolete romances ; one might think that were 
a fitter place for this handkerchief than that it, at this time 
of day, be worn on the stage, to raise every where aU this 
clutter and turmoil." And again, " the handkerchief is so re- 
mote a trifle, no booby on this side Mauritania could make 
any consequence from it." 

Our author suggests a felicitous alteration of the catastro- 
phe of Othello. He proposes, that the handkerchief, when 



60 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

lost, should have been folded in the bridal couch ; and when 
Othello was stifling Desdemona, 

" The fairy napkin might have started up to disarm his 
fury, and stop his ungracious mouth. Then might she (in a 
trance for fear) have lain as dead. Then might he (believing 
her dead) touched with remorse, have honestly cut his own 
throat, by the good leave, and with the applause, of all the 
spectators; who might thereupon have gone home with a 
quiet mind, admiring the beauty of providence, fairly and 
truly represented on the theatre." 

The following is the summing up and catastrophe of this 
marvellous criticism : 

" What can remain with the audience to carry home with 
them from this sort of poetry, for their use and edification ] 
How can it work, unless (instead of settling the mind and 
purging our passions) to delude our senses, disorder our 
thoughts, addle our brain, pervert our aflFections, hair our 
imaginations, corrupt ovoc appetite — and fill our head with 
vanity, confusion, tintamarre, and jingle-jangle, beyond 
what aU the parish clerks of London, with their Old Testa- 
ment farces and interludes, in Richard the Second's time, 
could ever pretend tol Our only hopes, for the good of 
their souls, can be that these people go to the play-house as 
they do to church — to sit still, look on one another, make no 
reflection, nor mind the play more than they would a ser- 
mon." 

" There is in this play some burlesque, some humour, and 
ramble of comical wit, some show, and some mimicry to 
divert the spectators ; but the tragical part is clearly none 
other than a bloody farce, without salt or savor." 

Our author's criticism on Julius Csesar is very scanty, 
compared with that of Othello, but it is not less decisive. 
Indeed, his classical zeal here sharpens his critical rage; 
and he is incensed against Shakspeare, not only as offend- 
ing the dignity of the tragic muse, but the memory of the 
noblest Romans. " He might," exclaims the indignant cri- 
tic, " be familiar with Othello and lago, as his own natural 



RYMER ON TRAGEDY. 61 

acquaintance, but Caesar and Brutus were above his conver- 
sation ; to put them in fools' coats, and make them Jack 
Puddens m the Shakspeare dress, is a saciilege beyond any 
thing in Spelman. The truth is, this author's head was full of 
villanous unnatural images — and history has flirnished him 
with great names, thereby to recommend them to the world, 
by writing over them — This is Brutus, this is Cicero, 
this is Csesar." He afFiTns, " that the language Shakspeare 
puts into the mouth of Brutus would not suit or be conve- 
nient, unless from some son of the shambles, or some natu- 
ral offspring of the butchery." He abuses the poet for 
making the conspirators dispute about day-break — seriously 
chides him for not allowing the noble Brutus a watch-can- 
dle in his chamber on this important night, rather than puz- 
zling his man, Lucius, to grope in the dark for a flint and tm- 
der-box to get the taper lighted" — speaks of the quarrel 
scene between Brutus and Cassius, as that in which " they 
are to play a prize, a trial of skill in huffing and swag- 
gering, like two drunken Hectors of a two-penny reckoning." 
And finally, alluding to the epilogue of Laberius, forced 
by the emperor to become an actor, he thus sums up his 
charges : 

" This may show with what indignity our poet treats the 
noblest Romans. But there is no other cloth in his ward- 
robe. Every one must wear a fool's coat that comes to be 
dressed by hun ; nor is he more civil to the ladies — Portia, 
in good manners, might have challenged more respect ; she 
that shines a glory of the fii'st magnitude in the gallery of 
heroic dames, is with our poet scarce one remove from a 
natural ; she is the own cousin-german of one piece, the very 
same impertinent silly f!esh and blood with Desdemona. 
Shakspeare's genius lay for comedy and humour. In tragedy 
he appears quite out of his element ; his brains are turned — 
he raves and rambles without any coherence, any spark of 
reason, or any rule to control him, to set bounds to his 
phrenzy." 

One truth, though the author did not understand it, is told 
in this critic on Julius Caesar; that Shakspeare's "sena- 
tors and his orators had their learning and education at the 

6* 



62 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

same school, be they Venetians, Ottamites, or noble Romans." 
They drew, in their golden urns, from the deep fountain of 
humanity, those living waters which lose not their sweetness 
in the changes of man's external condition. 

These attacks on Shakspeare are very curious, as evincing 
how gradual has been the increase of his fame. Their whole 
tone shows that the author was not advancing what he 
thought the world would regard as paradoxical or strange. 
He speaks as one with authority to decide. We look now 
on his work amazedly ; and were it put forth by a writer of 
our times, should regard it as " the very ecstasy of madness." 
Such is the lot of genius. However small the circle of cotem- 
porary admirers, it must " gather fame" as time rolls on. It 
appeals to feelings which cannot alter. The minds who once 
have deeply felt it, can never lose the impression at first 
made upon them — they transmit it to others, by whom it is 
extended to those who are worthy to treasure it. Its sta- 
bility and duration at length awaken the attention of the. 
world which thus acknowledges the sanction of time, and 
professes an admiration for the author, which it only feels for 
his name. We should not, however, have thus dwelt on the 
attacks of Rymer, had we regarded them merely as objects 
of wonder, or as proofs of the partial influence of Shaks- 
peare's genius. They are far from deserving unmingled 
scorn. They display, at least, an honest, unsophisticated 
hatred, which is better than the maudlin admiration of 
Shakspeare, expressed by those who were deluded by Ireland's 
forgeries. Their author has a heartiness, an earnestness 
almost romantic, which we cannot despise, though directed 
against our idol. With a singular obtuseness to poetry, he 
has a chivalric devotion to aU that he regards as excellent, 
and grand. He looks on the supposed errors of the poet as 
moral crimes. He confounds fiction with fact — grows warm 
in defence of shadows — feels a violation of poetical justice, 
as a wrong conviction by a jury — moves a Habeas Corpus 
for all damsels imprisoned in romance — and if the bard kills 
those of his characters who deserve to live, pronounces judg- 
ment on him as in case of felony, without benefit of clergy. 
He is the Don Q,uixote of criticism. Like the hero of Cer- 
vantes, he is roused to avenge fictitious injuries, and would 
demolish the scenic exhibition in his disinterested rage. In one 



RYMER ON TRAGEDY. 63 

sense he does more honour to the poet than any other writer, 
for he seems to regard him as an arbiter of life and death — 
responsible only to the critic for the administration of his 
powers. 

Mr. Rymer has his own stately notions of what is proper 
for tragedy. He is zealous for poetical justice ; and as he 
thinks that vice cannot be punished too severely, and yet that 
the poet ought to leave his victims objects of pity, he pro- 
tests against the introduction of very wicked characters. 
" Therefore," says he, " among the ancients we find no male- 
factors of this kind ; a wilful murderer is, with them, as 
strange and unknown as a parricide to the old Romans. Yet 
need we not fancy that they wei'e squeamish, or unacquainted 
with many of those great lumping crimes in that age : when 
we remember their (Edipus, Orestes, or Medea. But they 
took care to wash the viper, to cleanse away the venom, and 
with such art to prepare the morsel : they made it all junket 
to the taste, and all physic in the operation." 

Our author understands exactly the balance of power in 
the affections. He would dispose of aU the poet's characters 
to a hair, according to his own rules of fitness. He would 
marshal them in array as in a procession, and mark out ex- 
actly what each ought to do or suffer. According to him, 
so much of presage and no more should be given — such a 
degree of sorrow, and no more ought a character endure ; 
vengeance should rise precisely to a given height, and be exe- 
cuted by a certain appointed hand. He would regulate the 
conduct of fictitious heroes as accurately as of real beings, 
and often reasons well on his own poetic decalogue. " Amin- 
tor," says he, (speaking of a character in the Maid's Tra- 
gedy) " should have begged the king's pardon ; should have 
suffered all the racks and tortures a tyrant could inflict ; and 
from PeriUus's bull should have still bellowed out that eternal 
truth, that his promise was to be kept — that he is true to 
Aspatia, that he dies for his mistress! Then would his 
memory have been precious and sweet to after ages ; and 
the midsummer maidens would have offered their garlands 
all at his grave. 

Mr. Rymer is an enthusiastic champion for the poetical 
prerogatives of kings. No courtier ever contended more 
strenuously for their di\ine right in real life, than he for their 



64 talfourd's miscellaneous -writings. 

pre-eminence in tragedy. " We are to presume," observes 
he gravely, " the greatest virtues, where we find the highest 
rewards; and though it is not necessary that all heroes 
should be kings, yet undoubtedly all crowned heads, by poeti- 
cal right, are heroes. This character is a flower, a preroga- 
tive, so certain, so indispensably annexed to the crown, as by 
no poet, or parliament of poets, ever to be invaded." Thus 
does he lay down the rules of life and death for his regal do- 
main of tragedy : " If I mistake not, in poetry no woman is 
to kill a man, except her quality gives her the advantage 
above hun ; nor is a servant to kill the master, nor a private 
man, much less a subject to kill a king, nor, on the contrary. 
Poetical decency wiU not suffer death to be dealt to each 
other, by such persons whom the laws of duel allow not to 
enter the lists together." He admits, however, that, " there 
may be circumstances that alter the case : as where there 
is sufficient ground of partiality in an audience, either upon 
the account of religion (as Rinaldo or Riccardo in Tasso, 
might kill Soliman, or any other Turkish king or great Sul- 
tan) or else in favour of our country, for then a private Eng- 
lish hero might overcome a king of some rival nation." How- 
pleasant a master of the ceremonies is he in the regions of 
fiction — regulating the niceties of murder like the decorums 
of a dance — with an amiable preference for his own religion 
and country ! 

These notions, however absurd, result from an indistinct 
sense of a peculiar dignity and grandeur essential to tragedy 
^and surely this feeling was not altogether deceptive. Some 
there are, indeed, who trace the emotions of strange delight 
which tragedy awakens, entirely to the love of strong ex- 
citement, which is gratified by spectacles of anguish. Ac- 
cording to their doctrine, the more nearly the representation 
of sorrow approaches reality, the more intense wiH be the 
gi'atification of the spectator. Thus Burke has gravely as- 
serted, that if the audience at a tragedy were informed of an 
execution about to take place in the neighbourhood, they 
would leave the theatre to witness it. We believe that ex- 
periance does not warrant a speculation so dishonourable to 
our nature. How few, except those of the grossest minds, 
are ever attracted by the punishment of capital offenders ! 
Even of those whom the dreadful infliction draws together, 



RYMER ON TRAGEDY. 65 

how many are excited merely by curiosity, and a desire to 
view the last mortal agony, Avhich in a form more or less 
terrible all must endure ! We think that if, during the re- 
presentation of a tragedy, the audience were compelled to feel 
vividly that a fellow-creature was struggling in the agonies 
of a violent death, many of them would retire — but not to the 
scene of horror. The reality of human suffering would come 
too closely home to their hearts, to permit their enjoyment 
of the fiction. How often, during the scenic exhibition of in- 
tolerable agony — unconsecrated and unredeemed — have we 
been compelled to relieve our hearts from a weight too heavy 
for endurance,, by calling to mind that the woes are fictitious ! 
It cannot be the highest triumph of an author, whose aim is 
to heighten the enjoyments of life, that he forces us, in our 
own defence, to escape from his power. If the pleasure de- 
rived fi'om tragedy were merely occasioned by the love of 
excitement, the pleasure would be in proportion to the depth 
and the reality of the sorrow. Then would The Gamester be 
more pathetic than Othello, and Isabella call forth deeper 
admiration than Macbeth or Leai'. Then would George 
Barnwell be the loftiest tragedy, and the Newgate Calendar 
the sweetest collection of pathetic tales. To name those in- 
stances, is sufficiently to refute the position on which they 
are founded. 

Equally false is the opinion, that the pleasure derived from 
tragedy arises from a source of individual security, while 
others are suffering. There are no feelings more distantly 
removed from the selfish, than those which genuine tragedy 
awakens. We are carried at its representation out of our- 
selves, and " the ignorant present time," — by earnest sym- 
pathy with the passions and the sorrows, not of ourselves, 
but of our nature. We feel our community with the gene- 
ral heart of man. The encrustments of selfishness and low 
passion are rent asunder, and the warm tide of human sym- 
pathies gushes triumphantly from its secret and divine 
sources. 

It is not, then, in bringing sorrow home in its dreadful 
realities to our bosoms, nor in painting it so as to make us 
cling to our selfish gratifications with more earnest joy, that 
the tragic poet moves and enchants us. Grief is but the 
means — the necessary means indeed — by which he accom- 



66 talfoubd's miscellaneous writings. 

plishes his lofty purposes. The grander qualities of the 
soul cannot be developed — the deepest resources of comfort 
within it cannot be unveiled — the solemnities of its destiny 
cannot be shadowed forth — except in peril and in suffering. 
Hence perU and suffering become instruments of the Tragic 
Muse. But these are not, in themselves, those things which 
we delight to contemplate. Various, indeed, yet most dis- 
tinct from these, are the sources of that deep joy that tragedy 
produces. Sometimes we are filled with a delight not dis- 
similar to that which the Laocoon excites — an admiration of 
the more than mortal beauty of the attitudes and of the finish- 
ing — and even of the terrific sublimity of the folds in which 
the links of fate involve the characters. When we look at 
that inimitable group, we do not merely rejoice in a sym- 
pathy ^vith extreme suffering — but are enchanted with ten- 
der loveliness, and feel that the sense of distress is softened 
by the exquisite touches of genius. Often in tragedy, our 
hearts are elevated by thoughts " informed with nobleness" 
— by the view of heroic greatness of soul — by the contem- 
plation of affections which death cannot conquer. It is not 
the depth of anguish which calls forth delicious tears — it is 
some sweet piece of self denial — some touch of human gen- 
tleness, in the midst of sorrow — some " glorious triumph of 
exceeding love," Avhich sufRises our " subdued eyes," and 
mellows our hearts. Death itself often becomes the source of 
sublime consolations : seen through the poetical medium, it 
often seems to fall on the wretched " softly and lightly, as a 
passing cloud." It is felt as the blessed means of re-uniting 
faitMil and ill-fated lovers — it is the piUow on which the long 
struggling patriot rests. Often it exhibits the noblest triumph 
of the spiritual over the material part of man. , The intense 
ardoui" of a spirit that " o'er-inform'd its tenement of clay" — 
yet more quenchless in the last conflict, is felt to survive the 
struggle, and to triumph even in the victory which power has 
achieved over its earthly frame. In short, it is the high duty 
of the tragic poet to exhibit humanity sublimest in its dis- 
tresses — to dignify or to sweeten sorrow— to exhibit eternal 
energies wrestling with each other, or with the accidents of 
the world — and to disclose the depth and the immortality of 
the affections. He must represent humanity as a rock, 
beaten, and sometimes overspread, with the mighty waters 



RYMER ON TRAGEDY. 67 

of anguish, but stai unshaken. We look to him for hopes, 
principles, resting places of the soul— for emotions which 
dignify our passions, and consecrate our sorrows, A brief 
retrospect of tragedy will show, that in every age when it 
has triumphed, it has appealed not to the mere love of ex- 
citement, but to the perceptions of beauty in the soul — to the 
yearnings of the deepest affections — to the aspirations after 
gi'andeur and permanence, which never leave man even in 
his errors and afflictions. 

Nothing could be more dignified than the old tragedy of 
the Greeks. Its characters were demi-gods, or heroes ; its 
subjects were often the destinies of those lines of the mighty, 
which had their beginning among the eldest deities. So far, 
in the development of their plots, Avere the poets fi-om ap- 
pealing to mere sensibOity, that they scarcely deigned to 
awaken an anxious throb, or draw forth a human tear, la 
their works, we see the catastrophe from the begimiing, and 
feel its influence at every step, as we advance majestically 
along the solemn avenue which it closes. There is little 
struggle ; the doom of the heroes is fixed on high, and they 
pass, m sublime composure, to fiilfill their destiny. Their 
sorrows are awfiil, — their deaths religious sacrifices to the 
power of Heaven. The glory that plays about their heads, 
is the prognostic of their fate. A consecration is shed over 
their brief and sad career, which takes away all the ordinary 
feelings of suffering. Their afflictions are sacred, their pas- 
sions inspired by the gods, their fates prophesied in elder 
time, their deaths almost festal. AH things are tinged with 
sanctity or with beauty in the Greek tragedies. Bodily pain 
is made sublime ; destitution and wretchedness are rendered 
sacred ; and the very grove of the Furies is represented as 
ever fresh and gi-een. How grand is the suffering of Pro- 
metheus, — how sweet the resolution of Antigone, — how ap- 
palling, yet how magnificent, the last vision of Cassandra, — 
how reconciling and tender, yet how awful, the circum- 
stances attendant on the death of CEdipus ! And how rich a 
poetic atmosphere do the Athenian poets breathe over all the 
creations of their genius ! Their exquisite gi'oups appear, in 
all the venerableness of hoar antiquity ; yet in the distinct- 
ness and in the bloom of unfading youth. All the human 
figures are seen, sublime in attitude, and exquisite in finish- 



68 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

ing ; while, in the dim back ground, appear the shapes of 
eldest gods, and the solemn abstractions of life, fearfully em- 
bodied — " Death the skeleton, and time the shadow !" — 
Surely there is something more in all this, than a vivid pic- 
ture of the sad realities of our human existence. 

The Romans failed in tragedy, because their love of mere 
excitement was too keen to permit them to enjoy it. They 
had " supped full of horrors." Familiar with the thoughts of 
real slaughter, they could not endure the philosophic and 
poetic view of distress in which it is softened and made sa- 
cred. Their imaginations were too practical for a genuine 
poet to affect Hence, in the plays which bear the name of 
Seneca, horrors are heaped on horrors — the most unpleasing 
of the Greek fictions (as that of Medea) are re- written and 
made ghastly — and every touch that might redeem is care- 
fully effaced by the poet. Still the grandeur of old tragedy 
is there — still "the gorgeous pall comes sweeping by" — stUl 
the dignity survives, though the beauty has faded. 

In the productions of Shakspeare, doubtless tragedy was 
divested of something of its external grandeur. The mytho- 
logy of the ancient world had lost its living charm. Its 
heroic forms remained, indeed, unimpaired in beauty or 
grace, in the distant regions of the imagination, but they 
could no longer occupy the foreground of poetry. Men re- 
quired forms of flesh and blood, animated by human passion, 
and awakening human sympathy. Shakspeare, therefore, 
sought for his materials nearer to common humanity than 
the elder bards. He took also, in each play, a far wider range 
than they had dared to occupy. He does not, therefore, 
convey so completely as they did one grand harmonious 
feeling, by each of his works. But who shall affirm, that 
the tragedy of Shakspeare has not an elevation of its own, or 
that it produces pleasure only by exhibiting spectacles of 
varied anguish ■? The reconciling power of his imagination, 
and the genial influences of his philosophy, are ever softening 
and consecrating sorrow. He scatters the rainbow hues of 
fancy over objects in themselves repulsive. He nicely de- 
velopes the " soul of goodness in things evil " to console and 
delight us. He blends all the most glorious imagery of na- 
ture with the passionate expressions of affliction. He some- 
times in a single image expresses an intense sentiment in all 



RYMER ON TRAGEDY. 69 

its depth, yet identifies it with the widest and the grandest 
objects of creation. Thus he makes Timon, in the bitterness 
of his soul, set up his tomb on the beached shore, that the 
wave of the ocean may once a day cover him with its em- 
bossed foam — expanding an individual feeling into the ex- 
tent of the vast and eternal sea ; yet making us feel it as 
more intense, from the very subluiaity of the image. The 
mind can always rest without anguish on his catastrophes, 
however, mournflil. Sad as the story of Romeo and Juliet 
is, it does not lacerate or tear the heart, but relieves it of its 
weight by awakening sweet tears. We shriek not at their 
tomb, which we feel has set a seal on their loves and virtues, 
but almost long with them there " to set up our everlasting 
rest." We do not feel immingled agony at the death of 
Lear ; — when his aged heart, which has been beaten so fear- 
fully, is at rest — and his withered frame, late o'er-informed 
with terrific energy, reposes with his pious cWld. We are 
not shocked and harrowed even when Hamlet falls ; for we feel 
that he is unfit for the bustle of this world, and his own gen- 
tle contemplations on death have deprived it of its terrors. 
In Shakspeare, the passionate is always steeped in the beau- 
tifiil. Sometimes he diverts sorrow with tender conceits, 
which, like little fantastic rocks, break its streams into spark- 
ling cascades and circling eddies. And when it must flow 
on, deep and still, he bends over it branching foliage and 
graceful flowers — whose leaves are seen in its dark bosom, 
all of one sober and harmonious hue — but in their clearest 
form and most delicate proportions. 

The other dramatists of Shakspeare's age, deprived like 
him of classical resources, and far inferior to him in imagi- 
nation and wisdom, strove to excite a deep interest by the 
wUdness of their plots, and the strangeness of the incidents 
with which their scenes were crowded. Their bloody tra- 
gedies are, however, often relieved by passages of exquisite 
sweetness. Their terrors, not humanized like those of 
Shakspeare, are yet far removed from the vulgar or disgust- 
ing. Sometimes, amidst the gloom of continued crimes, 
wliich often follow each other in stern and awful succession, 
are fair pictures of more than earthly virtue, tinted with the 
dews of heaven, and encircled with celestial glories. The 
scene in The. Broken Heart, where Calantha amidst the 
7 



70 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

festal crowd, receives the news of the successive deaths of 
those dearest to her in the world, yet dances on — and that 
in which she composedly settles aU the affairs of her empire, 
and then dies smiling by the body of her contracted lord — 
are in the loftiest spirit of tragedy. They combine the dig- 
nity and majestic suffering of the ancient drama, with the in- 
tenseness of the modern. The last scene unites beauty, 
tenderness, and grandeur, in one harmonious and stately 
picture — as sublime as any single scene in the tragedies of 
^schylus or Shakspeare. 

Of the succeeding tragedians of England, the frigid imita- 
tors of the French Drama, it is necessary to say but little. 
The elevation of their plays is only on the stilts of declama- 
tory language. The proportions and s}anmetry of their 
plots are but an accordance with arbitrary rules. Yet was 
there no reason to fear that the sensibilities of their audience 
should be too strongly excited, without the alleviations of 
fancy or of grandeur, because their sorrows are unreal, tur- 
gid, and fantastic. Cato is a classical petrifaction. Its ten- 
derest expression is, " Be sure you place his urn near mine," 
which comes over us like a sentiment frozen in the utter- 
ance. Congreve's Mourning Bride has a greater air of 
magnificence than most tragedies of his or of the succeeding 
time ; but its declamations fatigue, and its labyrinthine plot 
perplexes. Venice Preserved is cast in the mould of dignity 
and of grandeur; but the characters want nobleness, the 
poetry coherence, and the sentiments truth. 

The plays of Hill, Hughes, Philips, Muiphy, and Rowe, 
are dialogues, sometimes ill and sometimes well written — 
occasionally stately in numbers, but never touching the soul. 
It would be unjust to mention Yoimg and Thomson as the 
writers of tragedies. 

The old English feeling of tender beauty has at last be- 
gun to revive. Lamb's John Woodvil, despised by the cri- 
tics, and for a whUe neglected by the people, awakened those 
gentle pulses of deep joy which had long forgotten to beat. 
Here first, after a long interval, instead of the pompous swell- 
ing of inane declamation, the music of humanity was heard 
in its sweetest tones. The air of freshness breathed over its 
forest scenes, the delicate grace of its images, its nice dis- 
closure of consolations and venerablenesses in the nature of 



RYMER ON TRAGEDY. 71 

man, and the exquisite beauty of its catastrophe, where the 
stony remorse of the hero is melted into child-like tears, as 
he kneels on the little hassock where he had often kneeled in 
infancy, are truly Shakspearian. Yet this piece, with all its 
delicacies in the reading, wants that striking scenic effect, 
without which a tragedy cannot succeed on the stage. The 
Remorse of Coleridge, is a noble poem ; but its metaphysical 
clouds, though fringed with golden imaginations, brood too 
heavily over it. In the detached scenes of Barry Cornwall, 
passages of the daintiest beauty abound — the passion is 
every where breathed tenderly forth, in strains which are 
" silver sweet " — and the sorrow is relieved by tenderness 
the most endearing. Here may be enjoyed " a perpetual 
feast of nectar'd sweets, where no crude surfeit reigns." — In 
these — and in the works of Shiel, and even of Maturin — are 
the elements whence a tragedy more noble and complete might 
be moulded, than any which has astonished the world since 
Macbeth and Lear. We long to see a stately subject for 
tragedy chosen by some living aspirant — the sublime struggle 
of high passions for the mastery, displayed — the sufferings 
relieved by glorious imagmations, yet brought home to our 
souls — and the whole conveying one grand and harmonious 
impression to the general heart. Let us hope that this triumph 
will not long be wanting, to complete the intellectual glories 
of our age. 



72 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 



REVIEW OF GIBBER'S APOLOGY FOR HIS 
LIFE. 

[Retrospective Review, No. 2.] 

There are, perhaps few individuals, of intense personal 
conciseness, whose lives, written by themselves, would be 
destitute of interest or of value. Works of this description 
enlarge the number of our intimacies without inconvenience; 
awaken, with a peculiar vivedness, pleasant recollections of 
our own past career; and excite that sympathy with the 
little sorrows, cares, hopes, and enjoyments of others, which 
infuses new tenderness into all the pulses of individual joy. 
The qualification which is most indispensable to the writer 
of such auto-biographies, is vanity. If he does not dwell 
with gusto on his own theme, he will commimicate no grati- 
fication to his reader. He must not, indeed, fancy himself 
too outrageously what he is not, but should have the highest 
sense of what he is, the happiest relish for his own peculia- 
rities, and the most confident assurance that they are mat- 
ters of great interest to the world. He who feels thus, will 
not chill us by cold generalities, but trace with an exquisite 
minuteness all the felicities of his life, all the well remem- 
bered moments of gratified vanity, from the first beatings of 
hope and first taste of delight, to the time when age is glad- 
dened by the reflected tints of young enterprize and victory. 
Thus it was with CoUey Gibber ; and, therefore, his Apology 
for his own life is one of the most amusing books that have 
ever been written. He was not, indeed, a very wise or lofty 
character — nor did he affect great virtue or wisdom — but 
openly derided gravity, bade defiance to the serious pursuits 
of life, and honestly prefeiTed his own lightness of heart and 



COLLEY gibber's APOLOGY FOR HIS LIFE. 73 

of head, to knowledge the most extensive or thought tlie most 
profound. He was vain even of his vanity. At the very com- 
mencement of his work, he avows his determination not to 
repress it, because it is part of himself, and therefore will 
only increase the resemblance of the picture. Rousseau 
did not more clearly lay open to the world the depths and 
inmost recesses of his soul, than Gibber his httle foibles and 
minikin weaknesses. The philosopher dwelt not more in- 
tensely on the lone enthusiasm of his spirit, on the allevia- 
tions of his throbbing soul, on the long draughts of rapture 
which he eagerly drank in from the loveliness of the imi- 
verse, that the player on his early aspirings for scenic ap- 
plause, and all the petty triumphs and mortifications of his 
passion for the favour of the town. How real and speaking 
is the description which he gives of his fond desires for the 
bright com'se of an actor — of his light-hearted pleasure, 
when, in the little part of the Chaplain, in The Orphan, he re- 
ceived his fii'st applause — and of his highest transport, when, 
the next day Goodman, a retired actor of note, clapped hmi 
on the shoulder at a rehearsal, exclaimed, with an oath, 
that he must make a good actor, which almost took away 
his breath, and fairly drew tears into his eyes ! The spirit 
of gladness which gave such exquisite keenness to his youth- 
ful appetite for praise, sustamed him through all the changes 
of his fortune, enabling liim to make a jest of penury, assist- 
ing him to gather fresh courage from every slight, adding 
zest to every success, mitil he arrived at the high dignity of 
" Patentee of the Theatre Royal." When " he no revenue 
had but his good spirits to feed and clothe him," these were 
ample. His vanity was to him a kingdom. The airiest of 
town butterflies, he sipped of the sweets of pleasiu'e wherever 
its stray gift;s were found ; sometimes in the tavern among 
the wits, but chiefly in the golden sphere of the theatre, — 
that magic circle whose majesties do not perish with the 
chances of the world. In reading his life, we become pos- 
sessed of his own feathery lightness, and seem to follow the 
course of the gayest and the emptiest of all the bubbles, 
that, in his age of happy trifling, floated along the shallow 
but glittering stream of existence. 

The Life of Gibber is peculiarly a favom'ite with us, not 
only by reason of the superlative coxcombiy which it exhi- 

7* 



/ 4 TALFOURD'S MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS. 

bits, but of the due veneration which it yields to an art too 
frequently under-rated, even among these to whose gi-atifica- 
tion it ministers. If the degree of enjoyment and of beneiit 
produced by an art be any test of its excellence, there are 
few indeed, which will yield to that of the actor. His ex- 
ertions do not, indeed, often excite emotions so deep or so 
pure as those wliich the noblest poetry inspii-es, but their ge- 
nial influences are for more widely extended. The beauties 
of the most gifted of bards, find in the bosoms of a very 
small number an answering sympathy. Even of those who 
talk familiarly of Spencer and Milton, there are few who 
have fairly read, and still fewer wiio tinily feel, their divinest 
efflisions. It is only in the theatre, that any image of the real 
grandeur of humanity — any picture of generous heroism and 
noble self-sacrifice — is poured on the imaginations, and sent 
warm to the hearts of tlie vast body of the people. There, 
are eyes, fomiliar through months and years oiil}'^ with me- 
chanic toO, suffused with natural tears. There, are the deep 
foimtains of hearts, long encrusted by narrow cares, bvu'st 
open, and a holy light is sent in on the long simken forms of 
the imagination, which shone fair and goodly in boyhood by 
tiieir own light, biit have since been sealed and forgotten in 
their " sunless treasuries." There, do the lowest and most 
ignorant catch their only glimpse of that poetic radiance 
which sheds its glory around om* being. While they gaze, 
they forget the petty concerns of their own individual lot, 
and recognise and rejoice in their kindred with a nature ca- 
pable of high emprise, of meek suff<?ring, and of defiance 
to the powers of agony and the grave. They are elevated 
and softened into men. They are carried beyond the igno- 
rant present time ; feel the past and the future on the instant, 
and kindle as they gaze on the massive realities of human 
virtue, or on those fairy visions which are the gleaming fore- 
shadows of golden years, which hereafter shall bless tlie 
world. Their horizon is suddenly extended from the nar- 
row circle of low anxieties and selfish joys, to the faitliest 
boundaries of oiu" moral horizon ; and they perceive, in clear 
vision, the rocks of defence for theu* nature, which their fel- 
low men have been privileged to raise. While they feel 
that " which gives an awe of things above thein," their souls 
are expanded in the heartiest sympatliy with the vast body 



COLLEY gibber's APOLOGY FOR HIS LIFE. 75 

of their fellows. A thousand hearts are swayed at once bj- 
the same emotion, as the high grass of the meadow yields, 
as a single blade, to the breeze which sweeps over it. Dis- 
tinctions of fortune, rank, talent, age, all give way to the 
warm tide of emotion, and every class feel only as partakers 
in one prifnal sympathy, " made of one blood," and equal in 
the sanctities of their being. Surely the art that produces an 
effect like this — which separates, as by a divine alchemy, 
the artificial from the real in humanity — which supplies to 
the artisan in the capital, the place of those woods and free 
airs and mountain streams, which insensibly harmonize the 
peasant's character — which gives the poorest to feel the old 
grandeur of tragedy, sweeping by with sceptred pall — 
which makes the heart of the child leap with strange joy, 
and enabkjs the old man to fancy himself again a child — is 
worthy of no mean place among the arts which refine our 
manners, by exalting our conceptions ! 

It has sometimes been objected to the theatrical artist, 
that he merely repeats the language and embodies the con- 
ceptions of the poet. But the allegation, though specious, is 
unfounded. It has been completely established, by a great 
and genial critic of our own time, that the deeper beauties 
of poetry cannot be shaped forth by the actor,* and it is 
equally true, that the poet has little share in the highest 
triumphs of the performer. It may, at first, appear a pa- 
radox, but is nevertheless, proved by experience, that the 
fanciful cast of the language has veiy little to do with 
the effect of an acted tragedy. Mrs. Siddons would not 
have been less than she is, though Shakspeare had never 
written. She displayed genius as exalted in the characters 
drawn by Moore, Southern, Otway, and Rowe, as in those 
of the first of human bards. Certain great situations are 
all the performer needs, and the grandest emotions of the 
soul all that he can embody. He can derive little aid from 
the noblest imaginations or the richest fantacies of the author. 
He may, indeed, by his own genius, — like the matchless artist 



* Pec Mr. Lamb's Essay on the Tragedies of Sliakspeare, at 
ada])tcd to roj)rcscnlation on the sta{;e — a piece, wliich coinbires 
more of profound thought, with more of deep fceUng- and exquisite 
beauty, than any criticism with which we are acquainted. 



76 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

to whom we have just alluded — consecrate sorrow, dignify 
emotion, and kindle the imagination as well as awaken the 
sympathies. But this will be accomplished, not by the tex- 
ture of the words spoken, but by the livhig magic of the eye, 
of the tone, of the action ; by all those means which belong 
exclusively to the actor. When Mrs. Siddons cast that un- 
forgotten gaze of blank horror on the corpse of Beverley, 
was she indebted to the play-wright for the conception! 
When, as Arpasia, in Tamerlane, she gave that look of inex- 
pressible anguish, in which the breaking of the heart might 
be seen, and the cold and rapid advances of death traced — 
and fell without a word, as if struck by the sudden blow of 
destiny — in that moment of unearthly power, when she asto- 
nished and territied ever her oldest admirers, and after which, 
she lay herself really senseless from the intensity of her own 
emotion — where was the marvellous stage-direction, the 
pregnant hint in the frigid declamatory text, from which she 
wrought this amazing picture, too perilous to be often re- 
peated 1 Do the words " I'm satisfied," in Cato, convey the 
slightest image of that high struggle — that contest between 
nature long repressed and stoic pride — which Mr. Kemble in 
an instant embodied to the senses, and impressed on the soul 
for ever 1 Or, to descend into the present time and the low- 
lier drama, does the perusal of The School of Reform con- 
vey any vestige of that rough sublimity which breathes in the 
Tyke of Emery 1 Are Mr. Liston's looks out of book, got- 
ten by heart, invented for him by writers of farces 1 Is there 
any fancy of invention in its happiest mood — any tracings 
of mortal hand in books — like to the marvellous creations 
which Munden multiplies at wiQ? These are not to be 
" constrained by mastery " of the pen, and defy not only the 
power of an author to conceive, but to describe them. The 
best actors indeed, in their happiest efforts, are little more in- 
debted to the poet, than he is to the graces of nature which 
he seizes, than the sculptor to living forms, or the grandest 
painters to history. 

Still less weight is there in the objection, that part of 
the qualities of an actor, as his form and voice, are the gifts 
of natiire which imply no merit in their possessor. They 
are no more independent of will, than the sensibility and 
imagination of the bard. Our admiration is not determined 



COLLEY gibber's APOLOGY FOR HIS LIFE. 17 

by merit, but by beauty ; we contemplate angelic purity of 
soul with as tender a love as virtue, which has been reared 
with intense labour among clouds and storms, and follow 
with as delighted a wonder the quick glances of intuition as 
the longest and most difficult researches. The actor exhibits 
as high a perception of natural grace, as fine an acquaintance 
with the picturesque in attitude, as the sculptor. If the forms 
of his imagination do not stand for ages in marble, they live 
and breathe before us while they last — change with all the 
variations of passion — and " discourse most eloquent music." 
They sometimes, as in the case of Mr. Kemble's Roman cha- 
racters, supply the noblest illustrations of history. The story 
of Coriolanus is to us no dead letter ; the nobleness of Cato 
is an abstract idea no longer. We seem to behold even 
now the calm approaches of the mighty stoic to his end — to 
look on him, maintaining the forms of Roman liberty to the 
last, as though he would grasp its trembling relics in his 
dying hands — and to listen to those solemn tones, now the 
expiring accents of liberty passing away, and anon the tre- 
mulous breathings of uncertain hope for the future. The 
reality with which these things have been presented to our 
youthful eyes is a possession for ever — quickening our sym- 
pathy with the most august instances of human virtue, 
and enriching our souls with palpable images of the majesty 
of old. 

It may be said, that if a great actor carries us into times 
that are past, he rears up no monument which will last in 
those which are to come. But there are many circumstances 
to counterbalance and alleviate the shortness of his fame. 
The anxiety for posthumous renown, though there is some- 
thing noble in it as abstracted from mere personal desires, is 
scarcely the loftiest of human emotions. The Homeric 
poets, who breathed forth their strains to untutored ears, and 
left no visible traces of their genius, could scarcely anticipate 
the duration of their works. Shakspeare seems to have 
thought little in his life-time of those honours which through 
all ages will accumulate on his memory. The best bene- 
factors of their race have left the world nothing but their 
names, and their remembrances in grateful souls. The true 
poet, perhaps, feels most holily when he thinks only of sharing 
in the immortality of nature, and " owes no allegiance but 



78 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

the elements." Some feeling, not unallied to this, may so- 
lace the actor for the short-lived remembrance of his ex- 
ertions. The images which he vivifies are not traced in 
paper, nor diffused through the press, nor extant in marble ; 
but are engraven on the fleshly tables of the heart, and last 
till " life's idle business " ceases. To thousands of the yoimg 
has he given their " first inild touch of sympathy and thought," 
their first sense of commimion with their kind. As time ad- 
vances, and the ranks of his living admirers grow thin, the 
old tell of his feats with a tenderer rapture, and give such 
vivid liints of his excellence as enable their hearers richly to 
fancy forth some image of grandeur or delight, which, in 
their minds at least, is like him. The sweet lustre of his me- 
mory thus grows more sacred as it approaches its close, and 
tenderly vanishes. His name lives stiU — ever pronoimced 
with happiest feelings and in the happiest hours — and excites 
us to stretch our thoughts backward into the gladnesses of 
another age. The grave-maker's work, according to the 
Clown, in Hamlet, outlasts aU others, even " till domesday," 
and the actor's fades away before most others, because it is 
the very reverse of his gloomy and dm'able creations. The 
theatrical picture does not endure because it is the warmest, 
the most living of the works of art ; it is short as human 
life, because it is as genial. Those are the intensest enjoy- 
ments which soonest wither. The fairest graces of nature 
— those touches of the etherial scattered over the vmiverse — 
pass away while they ravish us. Could we succeed in giving 
permanence to the rainbow, to the delicate shadow, or to the 
moon-beam on the waters, their light and unearthly charm 
would be lost for ever. The tender hues of youth would iU 
exchange their evanescent bloom for an enamel which ages 
would not destroy. And if " these our actors " must " melt 
into air, thin air," leaving but soft; tracings in the hearts of 
living admirers — if their images of beauty must fade into the 
atmosphere of town gaiety, until they only lend some deli- 
cate graces to those airy clouds which gleam in its distance, 
and which are not recognised as theirs, they can scarcely 
complain of the transitoriness which is necessarily connected 
with the living grace which belongs to no other order of 
artists. 

The work before us, however, may afford better consola- 



COLLEY gibber's APOLOGY FOR HIS LIFE. 79 

tion than we can render to actors ; for it redeems not the 
names, but the vivid images of some of the greatest artists 
of a century ago, from oblivion. Here they are not em- 
balmed, but kept alive — and breathe, in all the glory of their 
meridian powers, before us. Here Betterton's tones seem 
yet to melt on the entranced hearer — Nokes yet convulses 
the fuU house with laughter on his first appearance — and 
Mrs. Monfort sinks with her dainty, diving body to the 
groimd, beneath the conscious load of her own attractions. 
The theatrical portraits in this work are di'awn with the 
highest gusto, and set forth with the richest colouring. The 
author has not sought, like some admirable critics of this age 
of criticism, to say as many \vitty or eloquent things on each 
artist as possible, but simply to form the most exact likeness, 
and to give to the drapery the most vivid and appropriate 
hues. We seem to listen to the prompter's bell — to see the 
curtain rise — and behold on the scene the goodly shapes of 
the actors and actresses of another age, in their antique cos- 
tume, and with all the stately aii's and liigh graces which the 
town knows no longer. 

Betterton is the chief object of our author's admiration; 
but the account of his various excellencies is too long to ex- 
tract entire, and perhaps, on account of the spirit of boimd- 
less eulogy in which it is written, has less of that nicety of 
touch, which gives so complete an individuality to his pic- 
tures of other performers. 

The following are perhaps the most interesting parts of 
the description : 

" You have seen a Hamlet perhaps, who, on the fii'st ap- 
pearance of his father's spirit, has thrown himself into all the 
straining vociferation requisite to express rage and fury, and 
the house has thundered with applause ; though the misguided 
actor was all the while (as Shakspeare terms it) tearing a 
passion into rags. — I am the more bold to offer you this par- 
ticular instance, because the late Mr. Addison, while I sat by 
him, to see this scene acted, made the same observation, ask- 
ing me with some surprise, if I thought Hamlet should be 
in so violent a passion with the Ghost, which though it 
might have astonished, it had not provoked him^ for you 
may obsei^ve that in this beautiful speech, the passion never 



80 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

rises beyond an almost breathless astonishment, or an im- 
patience, limited by filial reverence, to inquire into the sus- 
pected wrongs that may have raised him from his peaceful 
tomb ! and a desire to know what a spirit so seemingly dis- 
tressed, might wish or enjoin a soiTOwful son to execute to- 
wards his futm*e quiet in the grave ] This was the light into 
which Betterton threw this scene ; which he opened with a 
pause of mute amazement ! then rising slowly, to solemn, 
trembling voice, he made the Ghost equally terrible to the 
spectator, as to himself! and in the descriptive part of the 
natural emotions which the ghastly vision gave him, the 
boldness of his expostulation was still governed by decency, 
manly, but not braving ; his voice never rising into that seem- 
ing outrage, or wUd defiance of what he naturally revered- 
But alas ! to preserve this medium, between mouthing, and 
meaning too little, to keep the attention more pleasingly 
awake, by a tempered spirit, than by mere vehemence of 
voice, is of all the master-strokes of an actor, the most diffi- 
cult to reach. In this none yet have equalled Betterton." 

" A farther excellence in Betterton, was, that he could 
vary his spirit to the different characters he acted. Those 
wild impatient starts, that fierce and flashing fire, which he 
threw into Hotspur, never came fi'om the imruffled temper 
of his Brutus ; (for I have, more than once seen a Bnatus as 
warm as Hotspur) when the Betterton Brutus was provoked, 
in his dispute with Cassius, his spirit flew only to his eye ; 
his steady look alone supplied that terror, which he dis- 
dained an intemperance in his voice should rise to. Thus, 
with a settled dignity of contempt, like an unheeding rock, he 
repelled upon himself the foam of Cassius. Perhaps the 
very words of Shakspeare will better let you into my mean- 
ing: 

Must I give way, and room, to your rash choler ? 
Shall I be frighted when a madman stares ? 

And a little after ; 

There is no terror, Cassius, in your looks I &c. 

Not but in some parts of this scene, where he reproaches 
Cassius, his temper is not vmder his suppression, but opens 



COLLEY CIBBBR's APOLOGY FOR HIS LIFE. 81 

into that warmth which becomes a man of virtue ; yet this is 
that hasty spark of anger, which Brutus himself endeavours 
to excuse." 

The account of Kynaston, who, in his youth, before the 
performance of women on the stage, used to appear in fe- 
male characters, is very amusing. He was particularly suc- 
cessful in Evadne, in The Maid's Tragedy, and always 
retained " something of a formal gravity in his mien, which 
was attributed to the stately step he had been so early con- 
fined to " in his female attire : the ladies of quality, we are 
told, used to pride themselves in taking him with them in their 
coaches to Hyde Park, in his theatrical habit, after the play, 
which then used to begin at the early hour of four. There 
was nothing, however, effeminate in his usual style of acting. 
We are told, that 

" He had a piercing eye, and in characters of heroic life, a 
quick imperious vivacity in his tone of voice, that painted 
the tyi'ant truly terrible. There were two plays of Dryden 
in which he shone, with uncommon lustre ; in Aurenge-Zebe 
he played Morat, and in Don Sebastian, Muley Moloch ; in 
both these parts, he had a fierce lion-like majesty in his port 
and utterance, that gave the spectator a kind of trembling ad- 
miration." 

The following account of this actor's performance in the 
now neglected character of Henry the Fourth, gives us the 
most \ivid idea of the gi'ave yet gentle majesty and kingly 
pathos, which the part requires : 

" But above this tyrannical, tumid superiority of character, 
there is a grave and rational majesty in Shakspeare's Harry 
the Fourth, which though not so glaring to the vulgar eye, 
requires thrice the skill and grace to become and support. 
Of this real majesty, Kynaston was entirely master ; here 
every sentiment came from him, as if it had been his own, as 
if he had himself, that instant, conceived it, as if he had lost 
the player, and were the real king he personated ! a perfec- 
tion so rarely found, that very often, in actors of good re- 
pute, a certain vacancy of look, inanity of voice, or super- 
8 



82 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

fluous gesture, shall unmask the man to the judicious specta- 
tor ; who from the least of those errors plainly sees the whole 
but a lesson given him, to be got by heart, from some great 
author, whose sense is deeper than the repeater's understand- 
ing. Tliis true majesty Kynaston had so entire a command 
of, that when he whispered the following plain line to Hot- 
spur, 

Send us your prisoners, or you'll hear of it ! 

he conveyed a more terrible menace in it, than the loudest in- 
temperance of voice could swell to. But let the bold imita- 
tor beware, for without the look, and just elocution that 
waited on it, an attempt of the same nature may faU to no- 
thing. 

" But the dignity of this character appeared in Kynaston 
stiU more shining, in the private scene between the King, and 
Prince his son : there you saw majesty, in that sort of grief, 
which only majesty could feel ! there the paternal concern, 
for the errors of the son, made the monarch more revered 
and dreaded : his reproaches so just, yet so unmixed with 
anger (and therefore the more piercing) opening as it were 
the arms of nature, with a secret wish, that filial duty, and 
penitence awaked, might fall into them with gi-ace and 
honour. In this affecting scene, I thought Kynaston showed 
his most masterly strokes of nature ; expressing all the va- 
rious motions of the heart, with the same force, dignity, and 
feeling, they are written ; addmg to the whole, that pecviliar 
and becoming grace, which the best writer cannot inspii'e 
into any actor, that is not born with it." 

How inimitably is the varied excellence of Monfort de- 
picted in the following speaking picture : 

" Monfort a younger man by twenty years, and at this 
time in his highest reputation, was an actor of a very different 
style : of person he was taU, weU made, fair, and of an agree- 
able aspect : his voice clear, full, and melodious : in tragedy 
he was the most affecting lover within my memory. His 
addresses had a resistless recommendation from the very 



COLLEY GIBBER S APOLOGY FOR HIS LIFE. bJ 

tone of his voice, which gave his words such a softness, that, 
as Dryden says, 

Like flakes of feather'd snow, 

They melted as they fell 1 

All this he particularly verified in that scene of Alexander, 
where the hero throws himself at the feet of Statu'a for par- 
don of his past infidelities. There we saw the great, the 
tender, the penitent, the despairing, the transported, and the 
amiable, in the highest perfection. In comedy, he gave the 
truest life to what we call the Fine Gentleman ; his spirit 
shone the brighter for being polished with decency : in scenes 
of gaiety, he never broke into the regard, that was due to 
the presence of equal or superior characters, though inferior 
actors played them ; he filled the stage, not by elbowing, and 
crossing it before others, or disconcerting their action, but 
by surpassing them, in true and masterly touches of nature. 
He never laughed at his own jest, unless the point of his 
raillery upon another required it. — He had a particular talent, 
in giving life to bons mots and repartees : the wit of the poet 
seemed always to come fi-om him extempore, and sharpened 
into more wit, from his brilliant manner of delivering it ; he 
had himself a good share of it, or what is equal to it, so lively 
a pleasantness of humour, that when either of these fell into 
his hands upon the stage, he wantoned with them, to the 
liighest delight of his auditors. The agi^eeable was so natu- 
ral to him, that even in that dissolute character of the Rover 
he seemed to wash off the guilt from vice, and gave it charms 
and merit. For though it may be a reproach to the poet, to 
draw such characters, not only unpunished, but rewarded, 
the actor may still be allowed his due praise in his excellent 
performance. And this is a distinction which, when this 
comedy was acted at Whitehall, King William's Q,ueen Mary 
was pleased to make in favour of Monfort, notwithstanding 
her disapprobation of the play. 

" He had besides all this, a variety in his genius, which 
few capital actors have shown, or perhaps have thought it 
any addition to their merit to arrive at; he could entirely 
change himself; could at once throw off the man of sense, 



84 TALFOUED's miscellaneous WBITINGS. 

for the brisk, vain, rude, and lively coxcomb, the false, flashy 
pretender to wit, and the dupe of his own sufficiency: of this 
he gave a delightful instance in the character of Sparkish in 
Wycherly's Country Wife. In that of Sir Courtly Nice his 
excellence was still greater : there, his whole man, voice, mien, 
and gesture, was no longer Monfort, but another person. 
There, the insipid, soft civility, the elegant and formal mien, 
the drawling delicacy of voice, the stately flatness of his ad- 
dress, and the empty eminence of his attitudes, were so nicely 
observed and guarded by him, that had he not been an en- 
tire master of nature, had he not kept his judgment, as it 
were, a centinel upon himself, not to admit the least likeness 
of what he used to be, to enter into any part of his perform- 
ance, he could not possibly have so completely finished it." 

Our author is even more felicitous in his description of the 
performers in low comedy and high farce. The following 
critic brings Nokes — the Liston of his age — so vividly before 
us, that we seem almost as well acquainted with him, as with 
his delicious successor. 

" Nokes was an actor of quite a different genius from any 
I have ever read, heard of, or seen, since or before his time ; 
and yet his general excellence may be comprehended in one 
article, viz. a plain and palpable simplicity of nature, which 
was so utterly his own, that he was often as unaccountably 
diverting in Ms common speech, as on the stage. I saw him 
once, giving an account of some table-talk, to another actor 
behind the scenes, which, a man of quality accidentally listen- 
ing to, was so deceived by his manner, that he asked him, if 
that Avas a new play he was rehearsing 1 It seems almost 
amazing, that this simplicity, so easy to Nokes, should never 
be caught by any one of liis successors. Leigh and Under- 
hil have been well copied, though not equalled by others. 
But not all the mimical skill of Estcourt (famed as he was for 
it) though he had often seen Nokes, could scarce give us an 
idea of him. After this, perhaps, it will be saying less of him, 
when I own, that though I have still the sound of every Mne 
he spoke, in my ear, (which used not to be thought a bad 
one) yet I have often tried, by myself but in vain, to reach 
the least distant likeness of the vis comica of Nokes. Though 



COLLY CIBEER's APOLOGY FOR Hia LIFE. 85 

this may seem little to his praise, it may be negatively say- 
ing a good deal to it, because I have never seen any one ac- 
tor, except himself, whom I could not, at least so far imitate,, 
as to give you a more than tolerable notion of his manner. 
But Nokes was so singular a species, and was so formed by 
nature, for the stage, that I question if (beyond the trouble of 
getting words by heart) it ever cost him an hour's labour to 
arrive at that high reputation he had, and deserved. 

" The characters he particularly shown in were Sir Mar- 
tin Marr-all, Gomez, in the Spanish Friar, Sir Nicolas Cully, in 
Love in a Tub, Barnaby Brittle, in the Wanton Wife, Sir 
Davy Dunce, in the Soldier's Fortune, Sosia, in Amphytrion, 
&c. &c. &c. To tell you how he acted them, is beyond the 
reach of criticism : but, to teU you what effect his action had 
upon the spectator, is not impossible : this, then is all you 
will expect from me, and from hence I must leave you to 
guess at him. 

" He scaixe ever made his first entrance in a play, but he was 
received with an involuntary applause, not of hands only, for 
those may be, and have often been partially prostituted, and 
bespoken ; but by a general laughter, which the very sight of 
him provoked, and nature could not resist ; yet the louder 
the laugh, the graver was his look upon it ; and sure, the 
ridiculous solemnity of his features were enough to have set 
a whole bench of bishops into a titter, could he have been 
honoured (may it be no offence to suppose it) with such 
grave and riglit reverend auditors. In the ludicrous dis- 
tresses, which by the laws of comedy. Folly is often involved 
in ; he sunk into such a mixture of piteous pusillanimity, 
and a consternation so ruefully ridiculous and inconsolable, 
that when he had shook you, to a fatigue of laughter, it be- 
came a moot point, whether you ought not to have pitied 
him. When he debated any matter by liimself, he would 
.shut up his mouth with a dumb studious pout, and roll his 
full eye into such a vacant amazement, such a palpable 
ignorance of what to think of it, that his silent perplexity 
(which would sometimes hold him several minutes) gave your 
imaguiation as full content, as the most absurd thing he could 
say upon it. In the character of Sir Martin Marr-all. who is 

8* 



86 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

always committing blunders to the prejudice of his own inte- 
rest, when he had brought himself to a dilemma in his af- 
fairs, by vainly proceeding upon his own head, and was 
afterwards afraid to look his governing servant and counsel- 
lor in the face ; what a copious and distressful harangue have 
I seen him make with his looks (whOe the house has been in 
one continued roar, for several minutes) before he could 
prevail with his courage to speak a word to him ! Then 
might you have, at once, read in his face vexation, that his own 
measures, which he had piqued himself upon, had failed ; — 
ejivy, of his servant's superior wit ; — distress, to retrieve the 
occasion he had lost; — shame, to confess his folly; — and 
yet a sullen desire, to be reconciled and better advised for 
the future ! What tragedy ever showed us -such a tumult of 
passions, rising, at once in one bosom 1 or what buskined 
hero, standing under the load of them, could have more ef- 
fectually moved his spectators, by the most pathetic speech, 
than poor miserable Nokes did, by this silent eloquence, and 
piteous plight of his features '? 

" His person was of the middle size, his voice clear, and 
audible ; his natural countenance grave, and sober ; but the 
moment he spoke, the settled seriousness of his features was 
utterly discharged, and a dry, droUing, or laughing levity took 
such full possession of him, that I can only refer the idea of 
him to your imagination. In some of his low characters, 
that became it, he had a shuffling shamble in his gait, with 
so contented an ignorance in his aspect, and an awkward 
absurdity in his gesture, that had you not known him, you 
could not have believed, that naturally he could have had a 
grain of common sense. In a word, I am tempted to sum up 
the character of Nokes, as a comedian, in a parody of what 
Shakspeare's Mark Antony says of Bratus as a hero : 

' His life was laughter, and tlie ludicrous 
So mixed in hirn, that Nature might stand up, 
And say to all the world — Tliis was an actor,' " 

The portrait of Underhil has not less the air of exact re^ 
semblance, though the subject is of less richness. 

" Underhil was a correct and natural comedian ; his parti- 



COLLEY gibber's APOLOGY FOR HIS LIFE. 87 

cular excellence was in characters, that may be called still- 
life, I mean the stiff, the heavy, and the stupid : to these he 
gave the exactest and most expressive colovu's, and in some 
of them, looked, as if it were not in the power of human 
passions to alter a feature of him. In the solenm formality 
of Obadiah in the Committee, and in the boobily heaviness of 
Lolpoop, in the Squire of Alsatia, he seemed the immovea- 
ble log he stood for ! a countenance of wood could not be 
more fixed than his, when the blockliead of a character re- 
quired it : his face was full and long ; from his crown to the 
end of his nose, was the shorter half of it, so that the dispro- 
portion of his lower features, when soberly composed, with 
an unwandering eye hanging over them, threw him into the 
most lumpish, moping mortal, that ever made beholders mer- 
ry ! not but, at other times, he could be awakened into spirit 
•equally rediculous. — In the coarse, rustic humour of Justice 
Clodpate, in Epsome Wells, he was a delightful brute ! and 
in the blunt vivacity of Sir Sampson, in Love for Love, he 
showed all that true perverse spirit, that is commonly seen 
in much wit and iU-nature. This character is one of those 
few so well written, with so much wit and humour, that an ac- 
tor must be the grossest dunce, that does not appear with an 
unusual life in it : but it will still show as gi'eat a proportion 
of skill, to come near UnderhO in the acting it, which (not to 
undervalue those who came soon after him) I have not yet 
seen. He was particularly admired too, for the Grave-dig- 
ger, in Hamlet. The author of the Tatler recommends him 
to the favour of the town, upon that play's being acted for 
his benefit, wherein, after his age had some years obliged 
him to leave the stage, he came on again, for that day, to 
perform his old part ; but, alas ! so worn and disabled, as if 
liimself was to have lain in the gi-ave he was digging : when 
lie could no more excite laughter, his infirmities v/ere dis- 
missed with pity : he died soon after, a superanuated pen- 
sioner, in the list of those, who were supported by the joint 
sharers, under the first patent granted to Sir Richard 
Steele." 

We pass reluctantly over the account of Mrs. Barry, Mrs. 
Betterton, and others of less note, to insert the following ex- 



88 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

quisite picture of one who seems to have been the most ex- 
quisite of actresses : 

" Mrs. Monfort, whose second marriage gave her the name 
of Verbruggen, was mistress of more variety of humour, 
than I ever knew in any one actress. This variety, too, was 
attended with an equal vivacity, which made her excellent 
in characters extremely different. As she was naturally a 
pleasant mimic, she had the skill to make that talent useful on 
the stage, a talent which may be surprising in a conversa- 
tion, and yet be lost when brought to the theatre, which was 
the case of Estcourt already mentioned : but where the elo- 
cution is round, distinct, voluble, and various, as Mrs. Mon- 
fort's was, the mimic, there, is a great assistant to the actor. 
Nothing, though ever so barren, if within the bounds of na- 
ture, could be flat in her hands. She gave many heighten- 
ing touches to characters but coldly written, and often made 
an author vain of his work, that in itself had but little merit. 
)She was so fond of humom% in what low part soever to be 
found, that she would make no scruple of defacing her fair 
form, to come heartily into it ; for when she was eminent in 
several desirable characters of wit and humour, in higher life, 
she would be in as much fancy, when descending into the 
antiquated Abigail, of Fletcher, as when triumphmg ui all the 
airs, and vain graces of a fine lady ; a merit, that few ac- 
tresses care for. In a play of D'Urfey's, now forgotten, 
called The Western Lass, which part she acted, she trans- 
formed her whole being, body, shape, voice, language, look, 
and featm-es, into almost another animal ; with a strong Devon- 
shire dialect, a broad laughing voice, a poking head, round 
shoulders, an imconceiving eye, and the most bedizening, 
dowdy dress, that ever covered the untrained limbs- of a Joan 
Trot. To have seen her here, you would have thought it 
impossible the same creature could ever have been recovered, 
to what was as easy to her, the gay, the lively, and the de- 
sirable. Nor was her humour limited to her sex ; for, while 
her shape permitted, she was a more adroit pretty fellow, 
than is usually seen upon the stage: her easy air, action, 
mien, and gestm^e, quite changed from the quoif, to the 
cocked hat,, and cavalier in fashion. People were so fond of 



COLLEY CIBEEr's APOLOGY FOR HIS LIFE. 89 

seeing her a man, that when the part of Bays in the Re- 
hearsal, had, for some time, lain dormant, she was desired to 
take it up, which I have seen her act with all the trae, cox- 
combly spirit and humour that the sufficiency of the charac- 
ter required. 

" But what found most employment for her whole various 
excellence at once, was the part of Melantha, in Marriage- 
Alamode. Melantha is as finished an impertinent, as ever 
fluttered in a drawing-room, and seems to contain the most 
complete system of female foppery, that could possibly be 
crowded into the tortured form of a fine lady. Her language, 
dress, motion, manners, soul, and body, are in a continual 
hurry, to be something more than is necessary or commenda- 
ble. And though I doubt it will be a vain labour, to offer 
you a just likeness of Mrs. Monfort's action, yet the fantastic 
impression is still so strong in my memory, that I cannot 
help saying something, though fantastically, about it. The 
first ridicxilous airs that break fi'om her, are, upon a gallant, 
never seen before, who delivers her a letter from her father, 
recommending him to her good gi'aces, as an honourable 
lover. Here now, one would think she might naturally show 
a little of the sex's decent reserve, though never so slightly 
covered ! No, sir ; not a tittle of it ; modesty is the virtue 
of a poor-souled country gentlewoman ; she is too much a 
court lady, to be imder so vulgar a confusion ! she reads the 
letter, therefore, with a careless, dropping lip, and an erected 
brow, humming it hastily over, as if she were impatient to 
outgo her father's commands, by making a complete conquest 
of him at once ; and that the letter might not embarrass her 
attack, crack ! she crumbles it at once, into her palm, and 
pours upon him her whole artillery of airs, eyes, and mo- 
tion ; down goes her dainty, diving body, to the ground, as 
if she were sinking under the conscious load of her own at- 
tractions ; then launches into a flood of fine language, and 
compliment, still playing her chest forward in fifty falls and 
risings, like a swan upon waving water ; and, to complete 
her impertinence, she is so rapidly fond of her own wit, that 
she will not give her lover leave to praise it ; silent assent- 
ing bows, and vain endeavours to speak, are all the share 
of the conversation he is admitted to, which, at last, he is 



90 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

relieved from, by her engagement to half a score visits, 
which she swims from him to make, with a promise to re- 
turn in a twinkling." 

In this work, also, the reader may become acquainted, 
on familiar terms, With Wilkes and Dogget, and Booth- 
fall in love with Mrs. Bracegirdle, as half the town did in 
days of yore — and sit amidst applauding whigs and tories 
on the fii'st representation of Cato. He may follow the ac- 
tors from the gorgeous scene of their exploits to their pri- 
vate enjoyments, share in then' jealousies, laugh with them 
at their own ludicrous distresses, and join in their happy 
social hours. Yet with all our admiration for the theatrical 
artists, who yet live in Cibher's Apology, we rejoice to be- 
lieve that then' high and joyous art is not declining. Kem- 
tle, indeed, and Mrs. Siddons, have forsaken that stateliest 
region of tragedy which they first opened to om- gaze. But 
the latter could not be regarded as belonging to any age ; 
her path was lonely as it was exalted, and she appeared, not 
as highest of a class which existed before her, but as a be- 
ing of another order, destined " to leave the world no copy," 
but to enrich its imaginations for ever. Yet have we, in the 
youngest of the Kemble line, at once an artist of antique 
gi'ace in comedy, and a tragedian of look the most chival- 
rous and heroic — of " form and movmg most express and 
admirable " — of enthusiasm to give vivid expression to the 

highest and the most honourable of human emotions. 

Still, in Macready, can we boast of one, whose rich and no- 
ble voice is adapted to all the most exquisite varieties of 
tenderness and passion — one, whose genius leads him to 
embody characters the most imaginative and romantic — 
and who throws over Ms grandest pictures tints so mel- 
low and so nicely blended that, with all their inimitable 

variety, they sink in perfect harmony into the soul. Still, 

in Kean, have we a performer of intensity never equalled — 
of pathos the sweetest and the most profound — whose bursts 
of passion almost transport us into another order of being, 
and whose flashes of genius cast a new light on the dark- 
est caverns of the soul. If we have few names to boast 
in elegant comedy, we enjoy a crowd of the richest and 
most original humourists, with Munden— that actor of a 



COLLEY gibber's APOLOGY FOR HIS LIFE. 91 

myriad unforgotten faces — at their head. But our theme 
has enticed us beyond owe proper domain of the past ; and 
we must retii'e. Let us hope for some Gibber, to catch the 
graces of our living actors before they perish, that our suc- 
cessors may fix on them their retrospective eyes unblamed, 
and enrich with a review of then- merits some number of 
our work, which ^\ill appear, in due course, in the twenty- 
second century ', 



92 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 



REVIEW OF JOHN DENNIS'S WORKS 

[Retrospective Review, No. 2.] 

John Dennis, the terror or the scorn of that age, which is 
sometimes honoured with the title of Augustan, has attained 
a lasting notoriety, to which the reviewers of our times can 
scarcely aspire. His name is immortalized in the Dunciad ; 
his best essay is preserved in Johnson's Lives of the Poets ; 
and his works yet keep their state in two substantial volumes, 
which are now before us. But the interest of the most 
poignant abuse and the severest criticism quickly perishes. 
We contemplate the sarcasms and the invectives which once 
stung into rage the irritable generation of poets, with as cold 
a curiosity as we look on the rusty javelins or stuffed rep- 
tiles in the glass cases of the curious. The works of Den- 
nis will, however, assist us in forming a judgment of the cri- 
ticism of his age,> as compared with that of our own, and 
will afford us an opportunity of investigating the influences 
of that popular art, on literature and on mamiers. 

But we must not forget, that Mr. Dennis laid claims to 
public esteem, not only as a critic,^ but as a wit, a politician, 
and a poet. In the first and the last of these characters, he 
can receive but little praise. His attempts at gaiety and 
humour are weighty and awkward, almost without example. 
His poetry can only be described by negatives ; it is not in- 
harmonious, nor irregular, nor often turgid — for the author, 
too nice to sink into the mean, and too timid to rise into the 
bombastic, dwells in elaborate " decencies for ever." The 
climax of his admiration for Q,ueen Mary — " Mankind ex- 
tols the king — the king admires the queen " — will give a fair 
specimen of his architectural eulogies. He is entitled to 
more respect as an honest patriot. He was, indeed, a true- 



JOHN Dennis's works. 93 

hearted Englishman — with the legitimate prejudices of his 
country — warmly attached to the principles of the revolu- 
tion, detesting the French, abominating the Italian opera, and 
deprecating as heartUy the triumph of the Pretender, as the 
success of a rival's tragedy. His political treatises, though 
not very elegantly finished, are made of sturdy materials. 
He appears, from some passages in his letters, to have che- 
rished a genuine love of nature, and to have turned, with 
eager delight, to deep and quiet solitudes, for refreshment 
from the feverish excitements, the vexatious defeats, and the 
barren triumphs, of his critical career. He admired Shak- 
speare, after the fashion of his age, as a wild irregular genius, 
who would have been inconceivably greater, had he known 
and copied the ancients. The following is a part of his ge- 
neral criticism on this subject, and a fair specimen of his best 
style : 

" Shakspeare was one of the greatest geniuses that the 
world ever saw, for the tragic stage. Though he lay under 
greater disadvantages than any of his successors, yet had 
he greater and more genuine beauties than the best and 
greatest of them. And what makes the brightest glory of his 
character, those beauties were entirely his own, and owing 
to the force of his own nature ; whereas, his faults were 
owing to his education, and to the ago he lived in. One 
may say of him as they did of Homer, that he had none to 
:^nitate, and is himself inimitable. His imaginations were 
often as just, as they were bold and strong. He had a natu- 
ral discretion which never could have been taught him, and 
his judgment was strong and penetrating. He seems to have 
wanted nothing but time and leisure for thought, to have 
found out those rules of which he appears so ignorant. His 
characters are always drawn justly, exactly, graphically, ex- 
cept where he failed by not knowing history or the poetical 
art. He had, for the most part, more fairly distinguished 
them than any of his successors have done, who have falsi- 
fied them, or confounded them, by making love the predomi- 
nant quality in all. He had so fine a talent for touching the 
passions, and they are so lively in him, and so truly in nature, 
that they often touch us more, without their due preparations, 
than those of otlier tracic poets, who have all the beauty of de- 
9 



94 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

sign and all the advantage of incidents. His master passion 
was terror, which he has often moved so powerfully and so 
wonderfully, that we may justly conclude, that if he had had 
the advantage of art and learning, he would have surpassed 
the very best and strongest of the ancients. His paintings 
are often so beautiful and so lively, so graceful and so power- 
ful, especially where he uses them in order to move terror, 
that there is nothing, perhaps, more accomplished in our 
English poetiy. His sentiments, for the most part, in his best 
tragedies, are noble, generous, easy, and natural, and adapt- 
ed to the persons who use them. His expression is, in many 
places, good and pure, after a hundred years; simple 
though elevated, graceful though bold, easy though strong. 
He seems to have been the very original of our English tra- 
gical harmony ; that is, the harmony of blank verse, diver- 
sified often by dissyllable and trissyllable terminations. For 
that diversity distinguishes it from heroic harmony, and, 
bringing it nearer to common use, makes it more proper to 
gain attention, and more fit for action and dialogue. Such 
verse we make when we are writing prose ; we make such 
verse in common conversation. 

" If Shakspeare had these great qualities by nature, what 
would he not have been, if he had joined to so happy a genius 
learning and the poetical art. For want of the latter, our author 
has sometimes made gross mistakes in the characters which 
he has drawn from history, against the equality and conve- 
niency of manners of his dramatical persons. Witness 
Menenius in the following tragedy, whom he has made an 
arrant buffoon, which is a great absurdity. For he might as 
well have imagined a grave majestic Jack Pudding, as a buf- 
foon in a Roman senator. Aufidius, the general of the Vol- 
scians, is shown a base and a profligate villain. He has of- 
fended against the equality of the manners even in the hero 
himself For Coriolanus, who in the first part of the tragedy 
is shown so open, so frank, so violent, and so magnanimous, 
is represented in the latter part by Aufidius, which is con- 
tradicted by no one, a flattering, fawning, cringing, insinuating 
traitor." 

Mr. Dennis proceeds very generously to apologize for 
Shakspeare's faults, by observing that he had neither friends 



JOHN Dennis's works. 95 

to consult, nor time to make corrections. He, also, attributes 
his lines " utterly void of celestial fire," and passages " harsh 
and unmusical," to the want of leisure to wait for felicitous 
hours and moments of choicest inspiration. To remedy these 
defects — to mend the harmony and to put life into the dul- 
ness of Shakspeare — Mr. Dennis has assayed, and brought 
his own genius to the alteration of Coriolanus for the stage, 
under the lofty title of the " Invader of his Country, or the Fatal 
Resentment." In the catastrophe, Coriolanus kills Aufidius, 
and is himself afterwards slain, to satisfy the requisitions of 
poetical justice ; which, to Mr. Dennis's great distress, Shak- 
speare so often violates. It is quite amusing to observe, with 
how perverted an ingenuity all the gaps in Shakspeare's 
verses are filled up, the irregularities smoothed away, and 
the colloquial expressions changed for stately phrases. Thus, 
for example, the noble wish of Coriolanus on entering the 
forum — 

" The iionoiired gods 
Keep Rome in safety, and the eliairs of justice 
Supplied with worthy men 1 plant love among us I 
Throng our large temples with the shows of peace. 
And not our streets with war" — 

is thus elegantly translated into classical language : 

" The great and tutelary gods of Rome 
Keep Rome in safely, and the chairs of justice 
Supplied with worthy men : plant love among you ; 
Adorn our temples with the pomp of peace, 
And, from our streets, drive horrid war away." 

The conclusion of the hero's last speech on leaving Rome — 
"Tluis r turn my back: there is a world elsewhere," 

is elevated into tlie following heroic lines : 

" For me, thus, thus, I turn my back upon you, 
And make a better world where'er I go." 

His fond expression of constancy to his wife — 



96 talfourd's miscellaneous -svritings. 

"That kiss 
I carried from tliec, dear ; and my true lip, 
flath virgined it e'er since," — 

is thus refilled : 

" That kiss 
I carried from my love, and my true lip 
Hath ever since preserved it like a virgin." 

The icicle, which was wont to " hang on Dian's temple," 
here more gracefully " hangs upon the temple of Diana." 
The burst of mingled pride, and triumph of Coriolanus, 
when taunted with the word " boy," is here exalted to tragic 
dignity. Our readers have, doubtless, ignorantly adnured 
the original. 

" Boy ! False hound ! 
If you have writ your annals true, 'tis there. 
That, like an eag-le in a dove cote, I 
Fluttered ynur Volsces in Corioli. 
Alone I did it — Boy!" 

The following is the improved version : 

" This boy, that, like an eagle in a dove court, 
Flutter'd a thousand Volsces in Corioli, 
And did it without second or acquittance. 
Thus sends their mighty ciiief to mourn in hell !" 

Who does not now appreciate the sad lot of Shakspeare — 
so feelingly bewailed by Mr. Demiis — that he had not a critic, 
of the age of King William by his side, to refine his style and 
elevate his conceptions ? 

It is edifying to observe, how the canons of Mr. Dennis's 
criticism, which he regarded as the imperishable laws of 
genius, are now either exploded, or considered as matters of 
subordinate importance, wholly unaffecting the inward soul 
of poetry. No one now regards the merits of an Epic poem, 
as decided by the subservience of the fable cind the action 
to the moral — by the presence or the absence of an allegory 
— by the fortunate or unfortunate fate of the hero — or by 
any other rviles of artificial decorum, which the critics of for- 



JOHN Dennis's works. 97 

mer times thought fit to inculcate. We learn from tlieir es- 
says, whether the works which they examine are constructed, 
in externals, according to certain fantastic rules ; but, whether 
they are frigid or impassioned, harmonious or prosaic, filled 
with glorious imaginations, or replete with low common- 
places ; — whether, in short, they are works of genius or of 
mere toil — are questions entirely beneath their concern. The 
critic on the tragedy of Cato, ingenious and just as it is, omits 
one material objection to that celebrated piece — that it is 
good for nothing, and would be so if all the faults selected 
for censme could be, in an instant, corrected. There is a 
French essay on Telemachus, framed on the same superficial 
principles of criticism, which, after a minute examination of 
the moral, fable, characters, aUegory, and other hke requisites 
of excellence, triumphantly proves its claim to be ranked with, 
if not above, the great poems of Homer and of Virgil. Mr. 
Dennis seems, in general, to have applied the rules of criti- 
cism, extant in his day, to the compositions on which he 
passed judgment; but there was one position respecting 
which his contemporaries were not agreed, and on which he 
combated with the spirit of a martyr. This disputed point, 
the necessity of observing poetical justice in works of fiction, 
we shall briefly examine, because we think that it involves 
one of those mistakes in himianity, which it is always desira- 
ble to expose. But fii'st we must, in fairness, lay one of our 
authors many arguments, on this subject, before our readers. 

'* The principal character of an epic poem must be either 
morally good or morally vicious ; if he is morally good, the 
making him end unfoitunately will destroy all poetical jus- 
tice, and, consequently, all instruction: such a poem can 
have no moral, and, consequently, no fable, no just and regu- 
lar poetical action, but must be a vain fiction and an empty 
amusement. Oh, but there is a retribution in futurity ! But 
I thought that the reader of an epic poem was to owe his 
instruction to the poet, and not to himself: well then, the poet 
may tell him so at the latter end of his poem : ay, would to 
God I could see such a latter end of an epic poem, where 
the poet should tell the reader, that he has cut an honest 
man's throat, only that he may have an opportunity to send 
him to heaven ; and that, though this would be but an indif- 

9* 



98 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

ferent plea upon an indictment for murder at the Old Baily, 
yet that he hopes the good-natured reader will have compas- 
sion on him, as the gods have on his hero. But raDlery 
apart, su", what occasion is there for having recourse to an 
epic poet to tell ourselves by the bye, and by the occasional 
reflection, that there wHl be a retribution in futurity, when 
the Christian has this in his heart constantly and dkectly, 
and the Atheist and Free-thmker will make no such reflec- 
tion 1 Tell me truly, sir, would not such a poet appear to 
you or nie, not to have sufficiently considered what a poeti- 
cal moral is 1 And should not you or I, sir, be obliged, in 
order to make him comprehend the nature of it, to lay before 
him that universal moral, which is the foundation of all 
morals, both epic and dramatic, and is inclusive of them all, 
and that is, That he who does good, and perseveres in it, 
shall always be rewarded ; and he who does iU, and perse- 
veres in it, shall always be punished 1 Should we not desire 
him to observe, that the foresaid reward must always attend 
and crown good actions, not sometimes only, for then it would 
foUow, that sometimes a perseverance in good actions has no 
reward, which would take away all poetical instruction, and, 
indeed, every sort of moral instruction, resohnng Providence 
into chance or fate. Should we not, sii", farther put him in 
mind, that since whoever perseveres in good actions, is sure 
to be rewarded at the last, it follows, that a poet does not 
assert by his moral, that he is always sure to be rewarded in 
this world, because that would be false, as you have very 
justly observed, p. 60 ; and, therefore, never can be the moral 
of an epic poem, because what is false may delude, but only 
truth can instmct. Should we not let him know, su", that this 
universal moral only teaches us, that whoever perseveres in 
good actions, shall be always sure to be rewarded either here 
or hereafter ; and that the truth of this moral is proved by 
the poet, by making the principal character of his poem, like 
all the rest of his characters, and like the poetical action, at 
the bottom, universal and allegorical, even after distinguish- 
ing it by a particular name, by making this principal charac- 
ter at the bottom, a mere political phantom of a very short 
duration, through the whole extent of which duration we can 
see at once, which continues no longer than the reading of 
the poem, and that being over, the phantom is to us nothing, 



JOHN Dennis's works. 99 

so that unless our sense is satisfied of the reward that is 
given to this poetical phantom, whose whole duration we see 
through from the very beginning to the end ; instead of a 
wholesome moral, there would be a pernicious instruction, 
viz: That a man may persevere in good actions, and not be 
rewarded for it through the whole extent of his duration, that 
is, neither in this world nor in the world to come." 

It may be sufficient to answer to all this — and to much 
more of the same kind which our author has adduced — 
that little good can be attained by representations which 
are perpetvially at variance with our ordinary perceptions. 
The poet may represent humanity as mightier and fairer 
than it appears to a common observer. In the mirror which he 
" holds up to nature," the forms of might and of beauty 
may look more august, more lovely, or more harmonious, 
than they appear, in the " light of common day," to eyes 
which are ungifted with poetic vision. But if the world of 
imagination is directly opposed to that of reality, it will be- 
come a cold abstraction, a baseless dream, a splendid mock- 
ery. We shall strive m vain to make men sympathize 
with beings of a sphere purely ideal, where might shall be 
always right, and virtue its own present as well as exceed- 
ing gi-eat reward. Happily, the exhibition is as needless 
for any moral purposes, as it would be inadequate to attam 
them. Though the poet cannot make us witnesses of the 
future recompense of that virtue, which here struggles and 
suffers, he can cause us to feel, in the midst of its very 
struggles and sufferings, that it is eternal. He makes the 
principle of immortality manifest in the meek submission, in 
the deadly wrestle with fate, and even in the mortal agonies 
of his noblest characters. What, in true dignity, does vir- 
tue lose, by the pangs which its clay tenement endures, if 
w^e are made conscious of its high prerogatives, though we 
do not actually behold the immunities which shall ultimately 
be its portion 1 Hereafter it mo// be rewarded ; but now 
it is triumphant. We require no dull epilogue to tell us, that 
it shall be crowned in another and happier state of being ; 
for our souls gush with admiration and sympathy with it, 
amidst its sorrows. We love it, and burn to imitate it, for 
its own loveliness, not for its gains. Surely it is a higher 



100 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

aim of the poet to awaken this emotion — to inspu'e us with 
the awe of goodness, amidst its deepest external debase- 
ments, and to make us ahnost desire to share in them, than 
to invite us to partake in her rewards, and to win us by a 
calculating sympathy. The hovel or the dungeon does not, 
in the pictures of a genuine poet, give the colouring to the 
soul which inhabits it, but receives from its majesty a conse- 
cration beyond that of temples, and a dignity statelier than 
that of palaces. For it is his high prerogative to exhibit 
the spiritual part of man triumphant over that about him, 
which is mortal — to show, in his far-reaching hope, his 
moveless constancy, his deep and disinterested affections, 
that there is a spirit within him, which death cannot destroy. 
Low, indeed, is the morality which aspires to affect men by 
nothing beyond the poor and childish lesson, that to be vir- 
tuous is to be happy. Virtue is no dependant on earthly 
expediencies for its excellence. It has a beauty to be loved, 
as vice has a deformity to be abhorred, which are unaffected 
by the consequences experienced by their votaries. Do we 
admire the triumph of vice, and scoff at goodness, when we 
think on the divine Clarissa, violated, imprisoned, heart- 
broken, djang 1 Must Parson Adams receive a mitre, to 
assure us that we should love him] Our best feelings and 
highest aspirations are not yet of so mercantile a cast, as 
those who contend for " poetical justice " would imagine. 
The mere result, in respect of our sympathies, is as nothing. 
The only real violation of poetical justice is in the violation 
of nature in the clothing. When, for example, a wretch, 
whose trade is murder, is represented as cherishing the 
pui'est and the deepest love for an innocent being — when 
cliivalrous delicacy or sentiment is conferred on a pirate, 
tainted with a thousand crimes — the effect is immoral, what- 
ever doom may, at last, await him. If the barriers of virtue 
and of evil are melted down by the current of spurious 
sympathy, there is no catastrophe which can remove the 
mischief; and while these are preserved in our feelings, 
there is none which can truly harm us. 

The critics of the age of Dennis held, a middle course 
between their predecessors of old time, and their living suc- 
cessors. The men who first exercised the art of criticism, 
imbued with personal veneration for the loftiest works of 



JOHN Dennis's works. 101 

genius, sought to deduce rules from them, which future poets 
should observe. They did not assume the right of passing 
individual judgments on their contemporaries — nor did they 
aim at deciding even abstract questions of taste on their 
own personal authority — but attempted, by fixing the laws 
of composition, to mark out the legitimate channels in which 
the streams of thought, passion, and sentiment, should be 
bounded through all ages. Their dogmas, therefore, whe- 
ther they contained more or less of truth, carried with them 
no extrinsic weight, were influenced by no personal feelings, 
excited no personal animosities, but simply appealed, like 
poetry itself, to those minds which alone could give them 
sanction. In the first critical days of England — those of the 
Rymers and the Dennises — the professors of the art began 
to regard themselves as judges, not merely of the prmciples 
of poetry, but of their application by living authors. Then 
commenced the arrogance on the side of the supervisors, 
and the impatience and resentment on that of their subjects, 
which contemporary criticism necessarily inspires. The 
worst passions of man are brought into exercise in reference 
to those piu-e and ennobling themes, which should be sacred 
from all low contentions of" the ignorant present time." But 
the battle was, at least, fair and open. The critic stOl ap- 
pealed to principles, however fallacious or imperfect, which 
all the world might examine. His decrees had no weight, 
independent of his reasons, nor was his name, or his want 
of one, esteemed of magical virtue. He attacked the poets 
on equal terms — sometimes, indeed, with derision and per- 
sonal slander — but always as a foe to subdue, not as a judge 
to pass sentence on them. Criticism, in our own times, has 
first assumed the air of " sovereign sway and masterdom " 
over the regions of fantasy. Its professors enforce not esta- 
blished laws, contend no longer for principles, attack poets 
no more with chivalrous zeal, as violating the cause of poetic 
morals, or sinning against the regularities of their art. They 
pronounce the works, of which they take cognizance, to be 
good or bad — often without professing to give any reason 
for their decision — or referring to any standard, more fixed 
or definite than their own taste, partiality, or prejudice. And 
the public, without any knowledge of their fitness for their 
office — without even knowing their names — receive them 



102 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

as the censors of literature, the privileged inspectors of ge- 
nius ! This strange supremacy of criticism, in our own age, 
gives interest to the investigation of the claims, which the 
art itself possesses to the respect and gratitude of the peo- 
ple. If it is, on the whole, beneficial to the world, it must 
either be essential to the awakening of genius — or necessary 
to direct its exertions — or useful in repressing abortive and 
mistaken efforts — or conducive to the keeping alive and fitly 
guiding adnoiration to the good and great. On each of 
these grounds, we shaU now very briefly examine its value. 
1. It is evident, that the art of criticism is not requisite to 
the development of genius, because, in the golden ages of 
poetry it has had no portion. Its professors have never even 
constructed the scaffolding to aid the erection of the cloud-i 
capped towers and solenon temples of the bard. By his facile 
magic he has called them into existence, like the palace of 
Aladdin, as complete in the minutest graces of finishing as 
noble in design. Long before the art of criticism was known 
in Greece, her rhapsodists had attained the highest excel- 
lencies of poetry. No fear of a critic's scorn, no desire of 
a critic's praise, influenced these consecrated wanderers. 
Natiu'e alone was their model, their inspirer, and their guide. 
From her did they drmk in the feeling, not only of perma- 
nence and of gi'andeur, but of aerial gi'ace, and roseate 
beauty. The rocks and hills gave them the visible images 
of lasting inight — the golden clouds of even, " sailing on the 
bosom of the air," sent a feeling of evanescent loveliness into 
theii' souls — and the delicate branchings of the grove, re- 
flected in the cakn waters, imbued them with a perception 
of elegance beyond the reach of art. No pampered audi- 
ences thought themselves entitled to judge them ; to analyze 
their powers ; to descant on their imperfections ; to lament 
their failures ; or to eulogize their sublimities, as those who 
had authority to praise. Their hearers dwelt on their ac- 
cents with rapturous wonder, as nature's living oracles. 
They wandered through the every where communicating 
joy, and every where receiving reverence — exciting in youth 
its first tearful ecstasy, and kindUng fresh enthusiasm amidst 
tlie withered affections of age. They were revered as the 
inspired chroniclers of heroic deeds — the inspu-ers of national 
glory and virtue — the depositories of the mysteries and the 



JOHN Dennis's WORKS. 103 

philosophic wisdom of times which even then were old. 
They trusted not to paper or the press for the preservation 
of their fame. They were contented, that each tree beneath 
which they had poured forth their effusions, should be loved 
for their sake — that the forked promontory should bear wit- 
ness of them — and the " brave o'er-hanging firmament, 
fretted with golden fire," tell of those who had first awaken- 
ed within the soul a sense of its glories. Their works were 
treasured up no where but in the soul — spread abroad only 
by the enthusiasm of kindred reciters — and transmitted to 
the children of other generations, while they listened with 
serious faces to the wondrous tales of their fathers. Yet 
these poems, so produced, so received, so preserved, were 
not only instinct with heavenly fire, but regular as the elabo- 
rate efforts of the most polished ages. In these products of 
an era of barbarism, have future bards not only found 
an exhaustless treasury of golden imaginations, but critics 
have discovered all those principles of order which they 
would establish as unalterable laws. The very instances 
of error and haste in their authors have been converted into 
figures of rhetoric, by those men, who represent nature her- 
self as irregular and feeble, and a minute attention to rules 
as essential to the perfection of genius. 

As criticism had no share in producing the Homeric 
poems, so also did it contribute nothing to the perfection of 
the Greek tragedies. For those works — the most complete 
and highly finished, if not the most profound, of all human 
creations — there was no more previous warrant, than for 
the wildest dream of fantasy. No critic fashioned the moulds 
in which those exquisite groups were cast, or inspired them 
\vith Promethean life. They were struck off in the heat of 
inspiration — the offsprings of moments teeming for immor- 
tality — though the slightest limb of each of the figures is 
finished as though it had been the labour of a life. These 
eternal works were complete — the spirit which inspired their 
authors was extinct — when Aristotle began to criticize. The 
development of the art of poetry, by that great philosopher, 
wholly failed to inspire any bard, whose productions might 
break the descent from the mighty relics of the preceding 
years. After him, his disciples amused themselves in refining 
on his laws — in cold disputations and profitless scrutinies. 



104 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

The soil, late so fertile with the stateliest productions of na- 
ture, was overgrown with a low and creeping underwood, 
which, if any delicate flower struggled into day, oppressed 
and concealed it from view beneath its briary and tangled 
thickets. 

2. The instances already given refute not only the notion, 
that criticism is requisite to prepare the way for genius, but 
also the opinion that it is necessary to give it a right direc- 
tion and a perfect form. True imagination is in itself " all 
compact." The term irregular, as absolutely applied to ge- 
nius, is absurd, and applied relatively, it means nothing but 
that it is original in its career. There is properly no such 
thing as iiTegular genius. A man endowed with " the vision 
and the faculty divine," may choose modes of composition 
unsuited to the most appropriate display of his powers ; — his 
images may not be disposed in the happiest arrangement, or 
may be clustered around subjects, in themselves, dreary or 
mean, but these fantasies must be in themselves harmonious, 
or they would not be beauteous, would not be imaginations. 
Genius is a law unto itself Its germs have, within them, 
not only the principles of beauty, but the very form into 
which the flower in its maturity must expand. As a wavy 
gleam of fire rises from the spark, in its own exquisite shape, 
so does imagination send forth its glories, perfect by the feli- 
citous necessity of their nature, exquisite in form by the same 
impulse, which gives them brightness and fervour. But how 
can the critic, in reality, acquire any jmisdiction over the 
genuine poet 1 Where are tlie lines by which he can fathom 
the depths of the soul ; where the instrument by which he 
can take the altitude of " the highest heaven of invention ?" 
How can he judge of thoughts which penetrate the mysteries 
of humanity, of fancies which " in the colours of the rainbow 
live, and play in the plighted clouds," of anticipations and 
foretastes by which the bard already " breathes in worlds, 
to which the heaven of heavens is but a veil ]" Can he mea- 
sure a sun-beam, or constrain a cloud, or count the steps of 
the bounding stag, of the forest, to judge whether they are 
graceful "? Has he power even to define those gigantic 
shadows reflected on the pure mirror of the poet's imagina- 
tion, from the eternal things which mortal eyes cannot dis- 
cern "! At best, he can but reason from what has been to 



JOHN Dennis's works. 105 

what shoiJd be ; and what can be more absurd than this course 
in reference to poetic invention ? A critic can understand no 
rules of criticism except what existing poetry has taught 
him. There was no more reason, after the production of the 
Biad, to contend that future poems should in certain points 
resemble it, than there was before the existence of that poem 
to lay down rules which would prevent its being what it is. 
There was antecedently no more probability that the powers 
of man, harmoniously exerted, could produce the tale of 
Troy divine, than that, after it, the same powers would not 
produce other works equally mai-vellous and equally perfect, 
yet wholly different in their colouring and form. The rea- 
sons which would prevent men from doing any thing, imlike 
it, w^ould also have prevented its creation, for it was doubt- 
less unlike all previous inventions. Criticism can never be 
prospective, until the resources of man and nature are ex- 
hausted. Each new world of imagination resolves on itself, 
in an orbit of its own. Its beauties create the taste which 
shall relish them, and the very critics which shall extol theii' 
proportions. The first admirers of Homer had no concep- 
tion that the Greek tragedies would start into life and become 
lasting as their idol. Those who lived after the times when 
these were perfected, asserted that no dramas could be worthy 
of praise, which were not fashioned according to their models 
and composed of similar materials. But, after a long inter- 
val, came Shakspeare — at first, indeed, considered by many 
as barbarous and strange — who, when his real merits are 
perceived, is felt to be, at the least, equal to his Greek prede- 
cessors, though violating every rule drawn from their works. 
Even in our short remembrance, we can trace the complete 
abolition of popular rules of criticism, by the new and un- 
expected combinations of genius. A few years ago, it was a 
maxim gravely asserted by Reviews, Treatises, and Maga- 
zines, that no interesting fiction could effectively be grafted 
on history. But " mark how a plain tale" by the author of 
Waverly " puts down" the canon for ever ! In fact, unless 
with more than angel's ken a critic could gaze on all the yet 
impossessed regions of imagination, it is impossible that he 
should limit his discoveries which yet await the bard. He 
may perceive, indeed, how poets of old have by their magic 
divided the clouds which bound man's ordinary vision, and 
10 



106 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

may scan the regions which they have thus opened to our 
gaze. But how can he thus anticipate what future bards 
may reveal — direct the proportions, the colours and the forms, 
of the realities which they shall imveil — fix boundaries to re* 
gions of beauty yet unknown; determine the height of their 
glory-stricken hills ; settles the course of their mighty waters ; 
or regulate the visionary shapes of super-human grace, 
which shall gleam in the utmost distance of their far per- 
spectives 1 

3. But it may be urged, that criticism is usefiol in putting 
down the pretensions of those who aspire, ^vithout just claim, 
to the honours of genius. This, indeed, in so far as it is un- 
favourable, is its chief object in modern times. The most 
celebrated of literary tribunals takes as the motto of its de- 
crees, " Judex damnatur cum nocens absolvitur ;" assimiing 
that to publish a dull book is a crime, which the public good 
requires should be exposed, whatever laceration of the in- 
most soul may be inflicted on the offender in the process. 
This damnatory principle is stUl farther avowed in the fol- 
lowing dogma of this august body, which deserves to be par- 
ticularly quoted as an explicit declaration of the spirit of mo* 
dern criticism : 

" There is nothing of which nature has been more boimti- 
ful than poets. They swarm like the spawn of the cod-fish, 
with a vicious fecundity that invites and requires destruction. 
To publish verses is become a sort of evidence that a man 
wants sense ; which is repelled, not by writing good verses, 
but by writing excellent verses ; — by doing what Lord Byron 
has done ; — by displaying talents great enough to overcome 
the disgust which proceeds from satiety, and showing that ail 
things may become new under the reviving touch of genius." 
Ed. Rev. No. 43, p. 68. 

It appears to us, that the crime and the evil denounced in 
this pregnant sentence are entirely visionary and fantastic. 
There is no great danger, that works without talent should 
usurp the admiration of the world. Splendid error may mis- 
lead ; vice linked to a radiant angel, by perverted genius, 
may seduce ; and the union of high energy with depravity 
of soul may teach us to respect where we ought to shudder. 
But men will not easDy be dazzled by insipidity, enchanted 
by discord, or awed by weakness. The mean and base, 



JOHN Dennis's works. 107 

even if left to themselves unmolested, will scarcely grow im- 
mortal by the neglect of the magnanimous and the wise. He 
who cautions the public against the admiration of feeble pro- 
ductions, almost equals the wisdom of a sage, who should 
passionately implore a youth not imprudently to set his heart 
on ugliness and age. And surely oiu* nerves are not grown 
so finely tremulous, that we require guardians who may pro- 
vidently shield us from glancing on a work which may prove 
unworthy of perusal. It is one high privilege of our earthly 
lot, that the best pleasures of humanity are not balanced by 
any painful sensations arising from their contraries. We 
drink in joy too deep for expression, when we penetrate the 
vast solitudes of nature, and gaze on her rocky fortresses, 
her eternal hUls, her regions " consecrate to eldest time." But 
we feel no answering agony whUe we traverse level and bar- 
ren plains ; especially if we can leave them at pleasure. — 
Thus, while we experience a thrOling delight, in thmking on 
the divinest imaginations of the poet, we are not plimged by 
the dullest author into the depths of sorrow. At all events, 
we can throw down the book at once ; and we must surely 
be very fastidious if we do not regard the benefit conferred 
on printers and publishers, and the gratification of the au- 
thor's innocent and genial vanity, as amply compensating the 
slight labour which we have taken in vain. 

But, perhaps, it is the good of the aspirants themselves 
rather than of their readers which the critic professes to de- 
sign. Here, also, we think he is mistaken. The men of 
our generation are not too prone to leave their quest after 
the substantial blessings of the world, in order to pursue 
those which are aerial and shadowy. The veiy error of the 
mind which takes the love for the power of poetry, is more 
goodly than common wisdom. But there are certain sea- 
sons, we believe, in life — some few golden moments at least 
— in which all men have really perceived, and felt, and en- 
joyed, as poets. Who remembers not an hour of serious ec- 
stasy, when, perhaps, as he lay beneath some old tree and 
gazed on the setting sun, earth seemed a visionary thing, the 
glories of immortality were half revealed, and the first notes 
a universal harmony whispered to his soul? — some mo- 
ment, when he seemed almost to realize the eternal, and could 
have been well contented to yield up his mortal being 1 — 



108 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

some little space, populous of high thoughts and disinterested 
resolves — some touch upon that " line of limitless desires," 
along which he shall live in a purer sphere 1 — And if that 
taste of joy is not to be renewed on earth, the soul will not 
suffer by an attempt to prolong its memory. It is a mistake, 
to suppose that young beginners in poetry are always 
prompted by a mere love of worldly fame. The sense of 
beauty and the love of the ideal, if they do not draw aU the 
faculties into then- likeness, still impart to the soul something 
of their rich and uneartWy colouring. Young fantasy spreads 
its' golden films, slender though they be, through the varied 
tenour of existence. Imagination, nurtured in the opening of 
life, though it be not developed in poetic excellence, will 
strengthen the manly virtue, give a noble cast to the thoughts, 
and a generous course to the sympathies. It will assist to 
crush self-love in its first risings, to mellow and soften the 
heart, and prepare it for its glorious destiny. Even if these 
consequences did not follow, surely the most exquisite feel- 
ings of young hope are not worthy of scorn. They may 
truly be worth years of toil, of riches, and of honour. Who 
would crush them at a venture — short and uncertain as life 
island cold and dreary as are often its most brilliant suc- 
cesses ] What, indeed, can this world offer to compare with 
the earliest poetic dreams, which our modern critics think 
it sport or virtue to destroy I 

" Such views the youtliful bard allure 

As, mindless of Ihe following- g-lnom. 
He deems their colours shall endure 

'Till peace go with him to the tomb. 

And let him nurse his fond deceit, 

And what if he must die in sorrow ; — 
Who would not cherish dreams so sweet, 

Tiioagh care and grief should come to-morrow ? 

But, supposing for a moment that it were really desu'able 
to put down all authors who do not rise into excellence, at 
any expense of personal feeling, we must not forget the risk 
which such a process involves of crushing undeveloped ge- 
nius. There are many causes which may prevent minds, 
gifted with the richest faculties, from exerting them at the 



JOHN Dennis's works. 109 

first with success. The very number of images, crowding 
on the mirror of the soul, may for a while darken its surface, 
and give the idea of inextricable confusion. The young 
poet's holiest thoughts must often appear to him too sacred to 
be fully developed to the world. His soul will half shrink at 
first from the disclosure of its solemn immunities and strange 
joys. He will thus become timid and irresolute — tell but a 
slight part of that which he feels — and this broken and dis- 
jointed communication will appear senseless or feeble. The 
more deep and original his thoughts — the more dazzling his 
glimpses into the inmost sanctuaries of nature, — the more diffi- 
cult will be the task of embodying these in words, so as to 
make them palpable to ordinary conceptions. He will be con- 
stantly in danger, too, in the fervour of his spirit, of mistaking 
things which in his mind are connected with strains of deli- 
cious musing, for objects, in themselves, stately or sacred. 
The seeming common-place, which we despise, may be to 
him the index to pure thoughts and far-reaching desires. In 
that which to the careless eye may seem but a little humble 
spiing — pure, perhaps, and sparkling, but scarce woi'thy of a 
glance — the more attentive observer may perceive a depth 
which he cannot fathom, and discover that the seeming fount 
is really the breaking forth of a noble river, winding its con- 
secmted way beneath the soU, which, as it runs, will soon 
bare its bosom to the heavens, and gQde in a cool and fer- 
tilizing majesty. And is there not some danger that souls, 
whose powers of expression are inadequate to make mani- 
fest their inward wealth, should be sealed for ever by the hasty 
sentences of criticism ] The name of Lord Byron is rather un- 
fortunately introduced by the celebrated journal which we have 
quoted, into its general denunciation against youthful poets. 
Surely the critics must for the moment have forgotten, that 
at the outset of the career of that bard, to whose example 
they now refer, as most illustriously opposed to the medio- 
crity which they condemn, they themselves poured contempt 
on his endeavours ! Do they now wish that he had taken 
their counsel 1 Are they willing to run the hazard, for the 
sake of putting down a thousand pretenders a few months 
before their time, of crushing another power such as they 
esteem his own] Their very excuse — that, at the time, 
liis verses were all which they adjudged them — is the very 

10* 



110 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

proof of the impolicy of such censures. If the object of 
their scorn has, in this instance, risen above it, how do we 
know that more delicate minds have not sunk beneath itl 
Besides, although Lord Byron was not repelled, but rather 
excited by their judgment, he seems to have sustained from 
it scarcely less injury. If it stung him into energy, it left its 
poison in his soul. It fii'st instigated his spleen ; — taught him 
that spirit of scorn which debases the noblest faculties — and 
impelled him, in his rage, to attack those who had done him 
no wrong, to scoff at the sanctities of humanity, and to pre- 
tend to hate or deride his species ! 

And, even, if genius is too deep to be suppressed, or too 
celestial to be perverted, is it nothing that the soul of its pos- 
sessor should be wrung with agony ] For a while, criticism 
may throw back poets whom it cannot annihilate, and make 
them pause in their course of glory and of joy, " confounded 
though inamortal." Who can estimate those pangs which on 
the " piu-est spirits " are thus made to prey 

" as on entrails, joint, and limb, 
With answerable pains but more intense ?" 

The heart of a young poet is one of the most sacred things 
on earth. How nicely strung are its fibres — how keen its 
sensibilities — how shrinking the timidity with which it puts 
forth its gentle conceptions I And shall such a heart receive 
rude usage from a woi'ld which it only desires to improve 
and to gladden 1 Shall its nerves be sti'etched on the rack, 
or its apprehensions turned into the instruments of its tor- 
ture ? All this, and more, has been done towards men of 
whom " this world was not worthy." Cowper, who, first of 
modern poets, restored to the general heart the feeling of 
healthful nature — whose soul was without one particle of 
malice or of gmle — whose susceptible and timorous spirit 
shrunk trembiingly from the touch of this rough world — was 
chilled, tortured, and almost maddened, by some nameless 
critic's scorn. Kirke White — the delicate beauties of whose 
mind were destined scarcely to unfold themselves on earth — 
in the beginning of his short career, was cut to the heart by 
the cold mockery of a stranger. A few sentences, penned, 
perhaps, in mere carelessness, almost nipped tlie young bios- 



JOHN Dennis's works. Ill 

soms of his genius " like an untimely frost ;" palsied for 
awhile all his faculties — embittered his little span of life — 
haunted him almost to the verge of his grave, and heightened 
his dying agonies ! Would the annihilation of all the dul- 
ness in the world compensate for one moment's anguish in- 
flicted on hearts like these ] 

We have been all this time considering not the possible 
abuses, but the necessary tendencies, of contemporary criti- 
cism. All the evils we have pointed out may arise, though 
no sinister design pervert the Reviewer's judgment — though 
no prejudice even unconsciously warp him — and, even, 
though he may decide fairly " from the evidence before him." 
But it is impossible that this favourable supposition should 
be often realized in an age like ours. Temper, politics, re- 
ligion, the interests of rival poets, or rival publishers — a 
thousand influences, sometimes recognised, and sometimes 
only felt — decide the sentence on imaginations the most 
divine. The very trade of the critic himself— the necessity 
of his being witty, or brilliant, or sarcastic, for his own sake 
— is sufficient to disqualify him as a judge. Sad thought ! — 
that the most sensitive, and gentle, and profound of human 
beings, should be dependant on casual caprice, on the pas- 
sions of a bookseller, or on the necessities of a period ! 

4. It may be perceived, from what we have already written, 
that we do not esteem criticism as a guide more than as a 
censor. The general effect on the public mind is, we fear, 
to dissipate and weaken. It spoils the freshest charms even 
of the poetry which it praises. It destroys all reverence for 
great poets, by making the world thmk of them as a species 
of culprits, who are to plead their genius as an excuse for 
their intrusion. Time has been when the poet himself — in- 
stead of submitting his works to the public as his master — 
called around him those whom he thought worthy to receive 
his precepts, and pointed out to them the divine lineaments, 
which he felt could never perish. They regarded liim, with 
reverence, as most favoured of mortals. They delighted to 
sit in the seat of the disciple, not in that of the scorner. 
How much enjoyment have the people lost by being exalted 
into judges ! The ascent of literature has been rendered 
smooth and easy, but its rewards are proportionably lessened 
in value. With how holy a zeal did the aspirant once gird 



112 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

liimself to tread the unworn path ; how delectably was he 
refreshed by each plant of green ; how intensely did he en- 
joy every prospect, from the lone and embowered resting 
places of his journey ! Now, distinctions are levelled — the 
zest of intellectual pleasures is taken away ; and no one 
hour, like that of Archimedes, ever repays a life of toil. The 
appetite, satiated with luxuries cheaply acquired, requires 
new stimulants — even criticism palls — and private slander 
must be mingled with it to give the necessary relish. Hap- 
pUy, these evils wiQ, at last, work out their own remedy. 
Scorn, of all human emotions, leaves the frailest monuments 
behind it. That light which now seems to play around the 
weapons of periodical criticism, is only like the electrical 
flame which, to the amazement of the superstitious, wreathes 
the sword of the Italian soldier on the approach of a storm, 
vapourish and fleeting. Those mighty poets of our time — 
who are now overcoming the derision of the critics — will be 
immortal witnesses of their shame. These vd'U lift their 
heads, " like mountains when the mists are rolled away," 
imperishable memorials (rf the true genius of our time, to the 
most distant ages. 



MODERN PERIODICAL LITERATURE. 113 



MODERN PERIODICAL LITERATURE. 

[New Monthly Magazine.] 

Little did the authors of the Spectator, the Tattler, an^ 
the Guardian think, while gratifying the simple appetites of 
our fathers for our periodical literature, how great would be 
the number, and how extensive the influence, of their suc- 
cessors in the nineteenth century. Little did they know that 
they were preparing the way for this strange era in the world 
of letters, when Reviews and Magazines supersede the ne- 
cessity of research or thought — when each month they be- 
come more spu'ited, more poignant, and more exciting — and 
on every appearance awaken a pleasing crowd of turbulent 
sensations in authors, contributors, and the few who belong 
to neither of these classes, unknown to our laborious an- 
cestors. Without entering, at present, into the inquiry 
whether this system be, on the whole, as beneficial as it is 
lively, we will just lightly glance at the chief of its produc- 
tions, which have such varied and extensive influences for 
good or for evil. 

The Edinburgh lieview — though its power is now on the 
wane — has perhaps, on the whole, produced a deeper and 
more extensive impression on the public mind than any other 
Avork of its species. It has two distinct characters — that of 
a series of original essays, and a critical examination of the 
new works of particular authors. The first of these consti- 
tutes its fairest claim to honourable distinction. In this point 
of view, it has one extraordinary merit, that instead of par- 
tially illustrating only one set of doctrines, it contains disqui- 
sitions equally convincing on almost all sides of almost all 
questions of literature or state policy. The "bane and anti- 



114 talfourd's miscellaneous wrjtings. 

dote" are frequently to be found in the ample compass of 
its volumes, and not unfrequently from the same pen. Its 
Essays on Political Economy display talents of a very uncom- 
mon order. Their writers have contrived to make the dry- 
est subjects enchanting, and the lowest and most debasing 
theories beautiful. Touched by them, the wretched dogmas 
of expediency have worn the air of venerable truths, and the 
degrading speculations of Malthus have appeared full of be- 
nevolence and of wisdom. They have exerted the uncom- 
mon art, while working up a sophism into every possible 
form, to seem as though they had boundless store of reasons 
to spare — a very exuberance of proof — which the clearness 
of their argument rendered it unnecessaiy to use. The cele- 
brated Editor of this work, with little imagination — little 
genuine wit — and no clear view of any great and central 
principles of criticism, has contrived to dazzle, to astonish, and 
occasionally to delight, multitudes of readers, and, at one 
period, to hold the temporaiy fate of authors at his will. His 
qualities are all singularly adapted to his office. Without 
deep feeling, which few can understand, he has a quick sen- 
sibility with which aU sympathize ; without a command of 
images, he has a glittering radiance of words which the most 
superficial may adinire ; neither too hard-hearted always to 
refuse bis admiration, nor too kindly to suppress a sneer, he 
has been enabled to appear most witty, most ^vise, and most 
eloquent, to those who have chosen him for their oracle. As 
Reviewers, who have exercised a fearful power over the 
hearts and the destinies of young aspirants to fame, this gen- 
tleman, and his varied coadjutors have done many great and 
irreparable wrongs. Their very motto, " Judex damnatur 
cum nocens absolvitur," applied to works offending only by 
their want of genius, asserted a fictitious crime to be pun- 
ished by a voluntary tribvmal. It implied that the author 
of a dull book was a criminal, whose sensibilities justice 
required to be stretched on the rack, and whose inmost soul 
it was a sacred duty to lacerate ! They even carried this 
atrocious absurdity farther — represented youthful poets as 
prima facie guilty ; " swarming with a vicious fecxmdity 
which invited and required destniction ;" and spoke of the 
publication of verses as evidence, in itself, of want of sense, 



MODERN PERIODICAL LITERATCRB. 115 

to be rebutted only by proofs of surpassing genius,* Thus 
the sweetest hopes were to be rudely broken — the loveliest 
visions of existence were to be dissipated — the most ardent 
and most innocent souls were to be wrung with unutterable 
anguish — and a fearful risk incurred of crushing genius too 
mighty for sudden development, or of changing its energies 
into poison — in order that the public might be secured from 
the possibility of worthlessness becoming attractive, or indi- 
viduals shielded from the misery of lookmg into a work which 
would not tempt their farther perusal ! But the Edinburgh 
Review has not been contented with deriding the pretensions 
of honest but ungifted aspirants; it has persued with misre- 
presentation and ridicule the loftiest and the gentlest spirits 
of the age, and has perverted the world, for a little season, 
from recognising and enjoying their genius. One of their 
earliest numbers contained an elaborate tissue of gross deri- 
sion on that delicate production of feeling and of fancy — that 
fresh revival of the old English drama ki all its antique graces 
— that piece of natural sweetness and of wood-land beauty — 
the tragedy oi John Woodvil They directed the same spe- 
cies of barbarous ridicule against the tale of Cristabel, tr5dng 
to excite laughter by the cheap process of changing the 
names of its heroines into Lady C. and Lady G. and employ- 
ing the easy art of transmuting its romantic incidents into 
the language of frivolous life, to destroy the fame of its most 
profound and imaginative author. The mode of criticism 
adopted on this occasion might, it is obvious, be used with 
equal success, to give to the purest and loftiest of works a 
ludicrous air. But the mightiest offence of the Edinburgh 
Review is the wilful injustice which it has done to Words- 
worth, or rather to the multitude whom it has debarred from 
the noblest stock of intellectual delights to be found in mo- 
dern poetry, by the misrepresentation and the scorn which 
it has poured on his effusions. It would require a far longer 
essay than this to expose all the arts (for arts they have 
been) which the Review has employed to depreciate this ho- 
liest of living bards. To effect this malignant design, Words- 
worth, Coleridge, and Southey, have been constantly repre- 

• See Ed. Rev. No. 43, p. 68. 



116 TALFOURd's MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS. 

sented as forming one perverse school or band of inno- 
vators — though there are perhaps no poets whose whole 
style and train of thought more essentially differ. To the 
same end, a few peculiar expressions — a few attempts at sim- 
plicity of expression on simple themes — a few extreme in- 
stances of naked language, which the fashionable gaudiness 
of poetry had incited — were dwelt on as exhibiting the poet's 
intellectual character, while passages of the pm'est and most 
majestic beauty, of the deepest pathos, and of the noblest 
music, were regarded as unworthy even to mitigate the 
critic's scorn. To this end, Southey — who with aU his rich 
and varied accomplishments, has comparatively but a small 
portion of Wordsworth's genius — and whose " wild and won- 
drous lays" are the very antithesis to Wordsworth's intense 
musings on humanity, and new consecrations of familiar 
things — was represented as redeeming the school which his 
mightier friend degraded. To this end, even Wilson — one 
who had delighted to sit humbly at the feet of Wordsworth, 
and who derived his choicest inspirations from him — was 
praised as shedding unwonted lustre over the barrenness of 
his master. But why multiply examples'? Why attempt 
minutely to expose critics, who in " thoughts which do often 
lie too deep for tears " can find matter only for jesting — who 
speak of the high, imaginative conclusion of the White Doe 
of Rylston as a fine compUment of which they do not know 
the meaning — and who begin a long and laborious article 
on the noblest philosophical poem in the world with — " This 
will never do V 

The Quarterly Review, inferior to the Edinburgh in its 
mode of treating matters of mere reason — and destitute of 
that glittering eloquence of which Mr. Jeffrey has been so 
lavish — is far superior to it in its tone of sentiment, taste, and 
morals. It has often given intimations of a sense that there 
are " more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of 
in the philosophy" of the Northern Reviewers. It has not re- 
garded the wealth of nations as every thing and the happi- 
ness of nations as nothing — it has not rested all the founda- 
tions of good on the shifting expediences of time — it has not 
treated human nature as a mere problem for critics to ana- 
lyze and explain. Its articles on travels have been richly 
tinged with a spirit of the romantic. Its views of religious 



MODERN PERIODICAL LITERATURE. 117 

sectarianism — unlike the flippant impieties of its rival — have 
been full of real kindliness and honest sympathy. Its disqui- 
sitions on the State of the Poor have been often replete with 
thoughts " informed by nobleness," and rich in examples of 
lowly virtue which have had power to make the heart glow 
with a genial warmth which Reviews can rarely inspire. 

Its attack on Lady Morgan, whatever were the merits of her 
work, was one of the coarsest insults ever offered in print 
by man to woman. But perhaps its worst piece of injustice 
was its laborious attempt to torture and ruin Mr. Keats, a 
poet then of extreme youth, whose work was wholly unob- 
jectionable in its tendencies, and whose sole offence was a 
friendship for one of the objects of the Reviewer's hatred, and 
his courage to avow it. We can form but a faint idea of 
what the heart of a young poet is when he first begins to 
exercise his celestial faculties — how eager and tremulous are 
his hopes — how strange and tumultuous are his joys — how ar- 
duous is his difficulty of embodying his rich imaginings in 
mortal language — how sensibly alive are all his feelings to 
the touches of this rough world ! Yet we can guess enough 
of these to estimate, in some degree, the enormity of a cool 
attack on a soul so delicately strung — with such aspirations 
and such fears — in the beginning of its high career. Mr. 
Keats — who now happily has attained the vantage-groimd 
whence he may defy criticism — was cruelly or wantonly 
held up to ridicule in the (Quarterly Review — to his transi- 
tory pain, we fear, but to the lasting disgrace of his traducer. 
Shelley has less ground of complaining — for he who attacks 
established institutions with a martyr's spirit, must not be sur- 
prised if he is visited with a martyr's doom. All ridicule of 
Keats was improvoked insult and injury — an attack on 
Shelley was open and honest warfare, in which there is no- 
thing to censure but the mode in which it was conducted. 
To deprecate his principles — to confute his reasonings — to 
expose his inconsistencies — to picture foi'th vi\'idly all that his 
critics believed respecting the. tendencies of his works — was 
just and lawful ; but to give currency to slanderous stories re- 
specting his character, and above all, darkly to insinuate guilt 
which they forbore to develope, was unmanly, and could only 
serve to injure an honourable cause. Scarcely less disgrace- 
ful to the Review is the late elaborate piece of abuse against 
11 



118 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

that great national work, the new edition of Stephens's Greek 
Thesaurus. It must, however, be confessed, that several ar- 
ticles in recent numbers of the Review have displayed very 
profound knowledge of the subjects treated, and a deep and 
gentle spirit of criticism. 

The British Revieiv is, both in evil and good, far below 
the two great Quarterly Journals. It is, however, very far from 
wanting ability, and as it lacks the gall of its contemporaries, 
and speaks in the tone of real conviction, though we do not 
subscribe to all its opinions, we offer it our best wishes. 

The Pamphleteer is a work of very meritorious design. 
Its execution, depending less on the voluntary power of its 
editor than that of any other periodical work, is necessarily 
unequal. On the v/hole, it has embodied a great number of 
valuable essays — which give a view of different sides of im- 
portant questions, like the articles of the Edinburgh, but 
without the aUoy which the inconsistency of the writers 
of the last mingle with their discussions. It has, we be- 
lieve, on one or two occasions, suggested valuable hints 
to the legislature — especially in its view of the effects arising 
from the punishment of the pOlory — which, although some- 
what vicious and extravagant in its style, set the evils of 
that exhibition in so clear a light, that it was shortly after 
abolished, except in the instance of purjmy. As the subject 
had not been investigated before, and the abolition followed 
so speedily, it may reasonably be presumed that this essay 
had no small share in terminating an infliction in which the 
people were, at once, judges and executioners — all the re- 
mains of virtue were too often extinguished — and justice 
perpetually insulted m the execution of its own sentences. 

The Retrospective Review is a bold experunent in these 
times, which well deserves to succeed, and has already attained 
far more notice than we should have expected to follow a pe- 
riodical work which relates only to the past. To unveil 
with a reverent hand the treasures of other days — to dis- 
close ties of sympathy with old time which else were hid- 
den — to make us feel that beauty and truth are not things of 
yesterday — is the aim of no mean ambition, in which suc- 
cess will be without alloy, and failure without disgrace. 
There is an air of youth and inexperience doubtless about 
some of the aiticles ; but can any thing be more pleasing 



MODERN PERIODICAL LITERATURE. 119 

than to see young enthusiasm, instead of dwelling on the 
gauds of the " ignorant present," fondly cherishing the vene- 
rableness of old time, and reverently listening to the voices 
of ancestral wisdom 1 The future is all visionary and unreal 
— the past is the truly grand, and substantial and abiding. 
The airy visions of hope vanish as we proceed ; but nothing 
can deprive us of our interest in that which has been. It is 
good, therefore, to have one periodical work exclusively de- 
voted to " auld lang syne." It is also pleasant to have one 
which, amidst an age whose literature is " rank with all un- 
kindness," is uiiaffected by party or prejudice, which feeds 
no depraved appetite, which ministers to no unworthy pas- 
sion, but breathes one tender and harmonious spirit of re- 
vering love for the great departed. We shall rejoice, there- 
fore, to see this work " rich with the spoils of time," and 
gradually leading even the mere readers of periodical works, 
to feel with the gentle author of that divine sonnet, written 
in a blank leaf of Dugdale's Monasticon : — 

" Not harsh nor rugged are the winding ways 
Of hoar antiquity, but strewn with flowers." 

These, we believe, are all the larger periodical works of 
celebrity not devoted to merely scientific purposes. Of the 
lesser Reviews, the Monthli/, as the oldest claims the first no- 
tice ; though we cannot say much in its praise. A singular 
infelicity has attended many of its censures. To most of those 
who have conduced to the revival of poetry it has opposed 
its jeers and its mockeries. Cowper, who first restored " free 
nature's grace " to our pictures of rural scenery — whose 
timid and delicate soul shrunk from the slightest encounter 
with the world — whose very satire breathed gentleness and 
good-wiU to all his fellows — was agonized by its unfeelmg 
scorn. Kirk White, another spirit almost too gentle for 
earth — painfully struggling by his poetical efforts to secure 
the scanty means of laborious study, was crushed almost to 
earth by its pitiable sentence, and his brief span of life filled 
with bitter anguish. This Review seems about twenty years 
behind the spirit of the times ; and this, for a periodical work, 
is fuUy equal to a century in former ages. 

Far other notice does the Eclectic Review require. It is, 



120 talfocrd's miscellaneous writings. 

indeed, devoted to a party ; and to a party whose opinions 
ai'e not veiy favourable to genial views of luunanitj', or to 
deep admiration of human genius. But not all the fieiy zeal 
of sectarianism \\hich has sometimes blazed through its dis- 
quisitions — nor all the straight-laced nicety with which it is 
sometimes disposed to regard eai-tlily enjoyments — nor all 
the gloom wliich its spirit of Calvmism sheds on the mighti- 
est efforts of wtue — can prevent us ii-om feeUng the awe- 
striking mfluences of honest principle — of hopes which are 
not shaken by the fluctuations of time — of faitli wliich 
looks to " temples not made with hands, eternal in the hea- 
vens." The Eclectic Review, indeed, in its earliest nmnbei'^ 
seemed resolved to oppose the spirit of its religion to the spi- 
rit of intellect aiid Immanity, and even went to tlie feai"ftil 
excess of heaping the vilest abuse on Shakspeare. and of 
lui)tmg that his soul was momiiing in the torments of hell, 
over the evils which liis works had occasioned in the world.* 

* This marvellous effusion of biorofry is contained in an article 
on Twiss's Index to Sliakspearc in the third volume of the Review, 
p. 75. TJie Reviewer comnienccs with tlie Jollowing tremendous 
sentence : — 

"If the compiler of these volumes had been properly sensible o' 
the value of time, and the relation which the employment of it bears 
to his eternal state, we should not have had to present our readers 
with the pitiable spectacle of a man advanced iu years consuming 
tiie embers of vitality in making a complete verbal Index to the PJays 
of Shakspeare." 

After acknowledging the genius of Shakspeare, the Reviewer ob- 
scjves, "He has been called, and justly too, the 'Poet of Nature.' 
A slight acquaintance with the religion of the Bible will show that 
it is of human nature in its worst shape, deformed by the basest pas- 
sions, and agitated by the most vicious propensities, that the poet 
became the priest; and the incense offered at the altar of his god- 
dess will spread its poisonous fumes over the hearts of his country- 
men, till the memory of his works is extinct, Tliousands of unhappy 
spirits, and thousands yet to increase their number, will everlast- 
ingly look back with unutterable anguish on the nights and days in 
which the plays of Shakspeare ministered to their guilty delights." 
— The Reviewer farther complains of the inscription on Garrick's 
tomb (which is absurd enough, though on tar different grounds) — as 
"the absurd and impious epitaph upon the tablet raised to one of the 
miserable retailers of his impurities!'' "We commiserate," conti- 



MODERN PERIODICAL LITERATURE. 121 

But its conductors have since clianged, or have gi'own wiser. 
Their Reviews of poetry Iiave been, perhaps, on the whole, 
in the purest and the gentlest spirit of any which have been 
written in this age of criticism. Without resigning their 
doctrines, they have softened and humanized those who pro- 
fess them, and have made their system of religion look 
smilingly, while they have striven to preserve it inispotted 
from the world. If occasionally they introduce their pious 
feelings where we regard them as misplaced, we may smile, 
but not in scorn.* Their zeal is better than heartless indif- 

nues the critic, " tlic heart of the man who can read the following 
lines without indignation: — 

' And till eternity, with power sublime, 
Sliail mark liie mortal hour of hoary time, 
Shaks'peare and Garrick,]ike twin stars, shall shine, 
And eacii irradiate with a beam divine.' 

" Par nohiie fralrum '. Your fame sliall last during- the empire of vice 
and misery, in the extension of whicii you \\ji\e acted so great a part! 
We make no apology tor our sentiments, unfashionable as they are. 
Feeling the importance of the condition of man as a moral agent, 
accountable not merely for the direct effects, but also for the remotest 
influence of his actions, lohile ice execrate the names, we cannot but 
shudder at the state of those who have opened fountains of impurity at 
tohich fa.^hion leads its successiee generations greedily to drink," — 
Merciful Heaven ! 

* We will give an instance of this — with a view to exhibit the pe- 
culiarities into which exclusive feelings lead ; for observation, not for 
derision. In a very beautiful article on Wordsworth's Excursion, 
the critic notices a stanza, among several, on the death of Fox, where 
the poet — evidently not referring to the questions of inmiortality 
and judgment, but to the deprivations sustained by the world in the 
loss of the objects of its admiration — exclaims, 

" A power is passing from the earth 

To breathless nature's vast abyss; 
But when the migiity pass awaj'. 

What is it more than tliis, 
That man, who is from God sent forth, 

Doth yet to God return? 
Such ebb and flow will ever be. 

Then wherefore shall we mourn ?" 

On which the Reviewer observes; "The question in the last two 
lines needs no answer: to that in the four preceding ones we must 
reply distinctly, ' It is appointed to men once to die, but after this 
the JUDGMENT.' " — Heb. ix. v. 27. 

11* 



122 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

ference — their honest denunciations are not like the sneers of 
envy or the heartless jests which a mere desire of applause 
inspires. It is something to have real principle in times 
like these — a sense of things beyond our fraU nature — even 
where the feeling of the eternal is saddened by too harsh 
and exclusive views of God, and of his children : for, as ob- 
served by one of our old poets, 

" Unless above himself he can 

Erect himself, how poor a thing is man!*" 

The British Critic is a highly respectable work, which 
does not require our praise, or offer any marks for our cen- 
sure. It is, in a gi^eat measure, devoted to the interests of the 
church and of her ministers. It has sometimes shown a little 
sourness in its controversial discussions — but this is very 
different, indeed, from using cold sneers against unopposing 
authors. Its articles of criticism on poetry — if not adorned 
by any singular felicity of expression — have often been, of 
late, at once clear-sighted and gentle. 

The Edinburgh Monthly Review is, on the whole, one 
of the ablest and fairest of the Monthly Reviews, though 
somewhat disproportionably filled with disquisitions on mat- 
ters of state policy. 

Few literary changes within the late changeful years have 
been more remarkable than the alteration in the style and 
spu'it of the magazines. Time was when their modest am- 
bition reached only to the reputation of being the " abstracts 
and brief chronicles " of passing events — when they were 
well pleased to afford vent to the sighs of a poetical lover, 
or to give light fluttering for a month to an epigram on a 
lady's fan — when a circumstantial account of a murder, or 
an authentic description of a birth-day dress, or the nice de- 
velopment of a family receipt, communicated, in their pages, 
to maiden ladies of a certain age an incalculable pleasure — 
and when the learned decyphering of an inscription on some 
rusty coin sufficed to give them a venerableness in the eyes 
of the old. If they then ever aspired to criticism, it was in 
m^re kindness — to give a friendly greeting to the young ad- 

* Daniel. 



MODERN PERIODICAL LITERATURE. 123 

venturer, and afford him a taste of unmingled pleasure at 
the entrance of his perilous journey. Now they are full of 
wit, satire, and pungent remark — touching familiarly on the 
profoundest questions of philosophy as on the lightest varie- 
ties of manners — sometimes overthrowing a system with a 
joke, and destroying a reputation in the best humour in the 
world. One magazine — the Gentleman^ s — almost alone re- 
tains "the homely beauty of the good old cause," in pristine 
simplicity of style. This periodical work is worthy of its 
title. Its very dulness is agreeable to us. It is as destitute 
of sprightliness and of gall as in the fiist of its years. Its an- 
tiquarian disquisitions are very pleasant, giving us the feeling 
of sentiment without seeming to obtrude it on us, or to be 
designed for a display of the peculiar sensibility of their au- 
thors. We would not on any account lose the veteran Mr. 
Urban— though he will not, of course, suffice as a substitute 
for his juvenile competitors — but we heartily \vish that he 
may go flourishing on in his green old age and honest self- 
complacency, to tell old stories, and remind us of old times, 
undisturbed by his gamesome and ambitious progeny ! 

Yet we must turn from his gentle work to gaze on the 
bright Aurora Borealis, the new and ever-varying Northern 
Light — BlackwoocVs Magazine. We remember no work 
of which so much might be truly said, both in censure and 
in eulogy — no work, at some times so profoimd, and at 
others so trifling — one moment so instinct with noble indig- 
nation, the next so pitifully falling into the errors it had de- 
nounced — in one page breathing the deepest and the kind- 
liest spirit of criticism, in another condescending to give 
currency to the lowest calumnies. The air of young life — 
the exuberance both of talent and of animal spirits — which 
this work indicates, will excuse much of that wantonness 
which evidently arises from the fresh spirit of hope and of 
joy. But there are some of its excesses which nothing can 
palliate, which can be attributed to nothing but malignant 
passions, or to the baser desire of extending its sale. Less 
censurable, but scarcely less productive of unpleasant re- 
sults, is its practice of dragging the peculiarities, the conver- 
sation, and domestic habits of distinguished individuals into 
public view, to gi-atify a diseased curiosity at the expense of 
men by whom its authors have been trusted. Such a course, 



124 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

if largely followed would destroy all that is private and social 
in life, and leave us nothing but our public existence. How 
must the joyous intercourses of society be chilled, and the 
free unbosoming of the soul be checked, by the feeling that 
some one is present who will put do^vn every look and word 
and tone in a note-book, and exhibit them to the common 
gaze ! If the enshadmg sanctities of life are to be cut away 
as in Peter's Letters, or in the Letters from the Lakes — its 
joys will speedOy perish. When they can no longer nestle 
in privacy, they wiU wither. We cannot however refuse to 
Blackwood's contributors the praise of great boldness in 
throwing away the external dignities of literature, and min- 
gling their wit and eloquence and poetry with the familiari- 
ties of life, -with an ease which nothing but the consciousness 
of great and genume talent could inspire or justify. Most of 
their jests have, we think, been carried a little too far. The 
town begins to sicken of their pugilistic articles ; to nauseate 
the blended language of Olympus and St. Giles's ; to long 
for inspiration from a pm-er spring than Belsher's tap ; and 
to desire sight of Apollo and the Muses in a brighter ring 
than that of Moulsey-hurst. We ought not to forget the 
debt which we owe to this magazine for infusing something 
of the finest and profoundest spirit of the German -wi'iters into 
our criticism, and for its " high and hearted " eulogies of the 
greatest, though not the most popular of our living poets. 

We have thus impartially, we think, endeavoured to per- 
form the delicate task of characterizing the principal con- 
temporaries and rivals of the New Monthly Magazine ; — of 
which our due regard to the Editor's modesty forbids us to 
speak. 



ON THE GENIUS AND WRITINGS OF WORDSWORTH. 125 



ON THE GENIUS AND WRITINGS OF 
WORDSWORTH. 

[New Monthly Magazine,] 

How charming is divine Philosophy ! 

Not harsh nor crabbed, as dull fools suppose, 

But musical as is Apollo's lute ! — Milton, 

Blessings be on him and immortal praise, 

Who gave us nobler loves and nobler cares, 

The Poet who on earth hath made us heirs 

Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays! — Wordsworth. 

Our readers will be disappointed if they expect to find in 
tills article any of the usual flippancies of criticism. Were 
we accustomed to employ them, its subject would utterly 
confound us. Strange is their infatuation who can fancy 
that the merits of a great poet are subjected to their decision, 
and that they have any authority to pass judicial censures, 
o/confer beneficent praises, on one of the divinest of intellects ! 
We shall attempt to set forth the peculiar immunities and 
triumphs of Wordsworth's genius, not as critics, tut as disci- 
ples. To him our eulogy is nothing. But we would fain 
induce our readers to follow us " where we have garnered 
up our hearts," and would endeavour to remove those in- 
fluences by which malignity and prejudice have striven to 
deter them from seeking some of the holiest of those living 
springs of delight which poets have opened for their species. 

A minute discussion of Wordsworth's system wiU not be 
necessary to our design. It is manifestly absurd to refer to 
it as a test of his poetical genius. When an author has given 



126 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

numerous creations to the world, he has furnished positive 
evidence of the nature and extent of his powers, which must 
preclude the necessity of deducing an opinion of them from 
the truth or falsehood of his theories. One noble imagina- 
tion — one profound and affecting sentiment — or one new 
gleam cast on the inmost recesses of the soul, is more than a 
sufficient compensation for a thousand critical errors. False 
doctrines of taste can endure only for a little season, but the 
productions of genius are " for all time." Its discoveries can- 
not be lost — its images wiU not perish — its most delicate in- 
fluences camiot be dissipated by the changes of times and of 
seasons. It may be a curious and interesting question, 
whether a poet laboriously builds up his fame with purpose 
and judgment, or, as has most falsely been said of Shak- 
speare, " grows immortal in his own despite ;" but it cannot 
affect his highest claims to the gratitude and admiration of 
the world. If MUton preferred Paradise Regained to Para- 
dise Lost, does that strange mistake detract from our rever- 
ing love 1 What would be our feeling towards critics, who 
should venture to allude to it as a proof that his works were 
unworthy of perusal, and decline an examination of those 
works themselves on the ground that his perverse taste suf- 
ficiently proved his want of genius 1 Yet this is the mode 
by which popular Reviewers have attempted to depreciate 
Wordsworth — they have argued from his theories to his 
poetry, instead of examining the poetry itself — as if their rea- 
soning was better than the fact in question, or as if one eter- 
nal image set up in the stateliest region of poesy, had not 
value to outweigh aU the truths of criticism, or to atone Upr 
all its errors 1" 

Not only have Wordsworth's merits been improperly 
rested on his system, but that system itself has been misre- 
presented with no common baseness. From some of the 
attacks directed against it, a reader might infer that it recom- 
mended the choice of the meanest subjects, and their treat- 
ment in the meanest way ; and that it not only represented 
poetry as fitly employed on things in themselves low and 
trivial, but that it forbad the clustering and delicate fancies 
about them, or the shedding on them any reconciling and 
softening lustre. Multitudes, indeed, have wondered as they 
read, not only that any persons should be deluded by its 



ON THE GENIUS AND WRITINGS OF WORDSWORTH. 127 

perverse insipidities, but that critics should waste their ridi- 
cule on an author who resigned at once all pretensions to the 
poetic axt. In reality, this calumniated system has only re- 
ference to the diction, and to the subjects of poetry. It has 
merely taught, that the diction of poetry is not different from 
that of pi'ose, and suggested that themes hitherto little dwelt 
on, were not unsuited to the bard's divinest uses. Let us 
briefly examine what gi'ound of offence there is in the asser- 
tion or application of these positions. 

Some have supposed that by rejecting a diction as peculiar 
to poetry, Wordsworth denied to it those qualities which are 
its essence, and those "harmonious numbers" which its 
thoughts " voluntarily move." Were his language equivocal, 
which it is not, the slightest glance at his works would show 
that he could hpve no design to exclude from it the stateliest 
imaginings, the most fellcitious allusions, or the choicest and 
most varied music. He objected only to a peculiar phraseo- 
logy — a certain hacknied strain of inversion — which had 
been set up as distinguishing poetry from prose, and which, 
he contended, was equally false in either. What is there of 
pernicious heresy in this, unless we make the crafty politi- 
cian's doctrine, that speech was given to man to conceal his 
thoughts, the great principle of poetry 1 If words are fitly 
combined only to convey ideas to the mind, each word having 
a fixed meaning in itself, no different mode of collocation can 
be requisite when the noblest sentiment is to be embodied, 
from that which is proper when the dryest fact is to be as- 
serted. Each term employed by a poet has as determinate 
an office — as clearly means one thing as distmguished fi-om 
all others — as a mathematician's scientific phrases. If a poet 
wishes lucidly to convey a gi'and picture to the mind, there 
can be no reason why he should resort to another mode of 
speech than that which he would employ in delivering the 
plainest narrative. He will, of course, use other and proba- 
bly more beautiful words, because they properly belong to 
his subject ; but he will not use any different order in their 
aiTangement, because in both cases his immediate object is 
the same — the clear communication of his own idea to the 
mind of his reader. And this is true hot only of the chief ob- 
ject of the passage, but of every hinted allusion, or nice shade 
of feeling, which may adorn it. If by " poetic diction" is in- 



128 TALFOURd's miscellaneous "WRITINGS. 

tended the vivid expression of poetic thoughts, to annihilate 
it, is to annihilate poetry; but if it means certain ornamental 
phrases and forms of language not necessary to such expres- 
sion, it is, at best, but a splendid error. FeMcity of language 
can never be other than the distinct expression of felicitous 
thought The only art of diction in poetry, as in prose, is 
the nice bodying forth of each delicate vibration of the feel- 
ings, and each soft shade of the images, in words which at 
once make us conscious of their most transient beauty. At 
all events, there was surely no offence in an individual's re- 
jecting the aid of a style regarded as poetic, and reljdng for 
his fame on the naked majesty of his conceptions. The tri- 
umph is more signal when the Poet uses language as a mir- 
ror, clear, and itself invisible, to reflect his creations in their 
native hues, — than when he employs it as a stained and fal- 
lacious medium to exhibit its own varieties of tint, and to 
show the objects which it partially reveals in its own prismatic 
colouring. 

But it is said that the subjects of Wordsworth's poetiy 
are not in themselves so lofty as those which his noblest pre- 
decessors have chosen. If this be true, and he has yet suc- 
ceeded in discovering within them poetical affinities, or in 
shedding on them a new consecration, he does not surely 
deserve ill of his species. He has left all our old objects of vene- 
ration iminjured, and has enabled us to recognise new ones 
in the peaceful and familiar courses of our being. The ques- 
tion is not whether there are more august themes than those 
which he has treated, but whether these last have any in- 
terest, as seen in the light which he has cast around them. 
If they have, the benefits which he has conferred on humanity 
are more signal, and the triumph of his own powers is more 
undivided and more pure, than if he had treated on subjects 
which we have been accustomed to revere. We are more 
indebted to one who opens to us a new and secluded path- 
way in the regions of fantasy with its own verdant inequali- 
ties and delicate overshadings of foliage, than if he had stepped 
majestically in the broad and beaten highway to swell the 
triumphant procession of laurelled bards. Is it matter of ac- 
cusation that a poet has opened visions of gloiy about the 
ordinaiy walks of life — that he has linked holiest associations 
to things which hitherto have been regarded without emotion 



ON THE GENIUS AND WRITINGS OP WORDSWORTH. 129 

— that he has made beauty " a simple product of the common 
day 1" Shall he be denied the poetic faculty who without 
the attractions of stoiy — without the blandishments of diction 
— without even the aid of those associations which have en- 
crusted themselves around the oldest themes of the poet, has 
for many years excited the animosities of the most popular 
critics, and mingled the love and admiration of his genius 
with the life-blood of hearts neither unreflecting nor imgen- 
tle? 

But most of the subjects of Mr, Wordsworth, though not 
aiTayed in any adventitious pomp, have a real and innate 
grandeur. True it is, that he moves not among the regali- 
ties, but among the humanities of his art. True it is, Ihat 
his poetry does not " make its bed and procreant cradle " in 
the " jutting, frieze, cornice, or architrave " of the glorious 
edifices of human power. The universe, in its naked ma- 
jesty, and man in the plain dignity of his nature, are his 
favourite themes. And is there no might, no gloiy, no sanc- 
tity in these"? Earth has her own venerablenesses — her 
awful forests, which have darkened her hills for ages with 
tremendous gloom ; her mysterious springs pouring out 
everlasting Avaters from unsearchable recesses ; her wrecks 
of elemental contests ; her jagged rocks, monumental of an 
earlier world. The lowliest of her beauties has an antiquity 
beyond that of the pja-amids. The evening breeze has the old 
sweetness which it shed over the fields of Canaan, when 
Isaac went out to meditate. The Nile swells with its rich 
waters towards the bul-rushes of Egypt, as when the infant 
Mo.ses nestled among them, watched by the sisterly love of 
Miriam. Z ion's hill has not passed away with its temple, 
nor lost its sanctity amidst the timiultuous changes aroimd 
it, nor even by the accomplishment of that awful religion of 
types and symbols which once was enthroned on its steeps. 
The sun to which the poet turns his eye is the same which 
shone over Thermopylae ; and the wind to which he listens 
swept over Salamis, and scattered the armaments of Xerxes. 
Is a poet utterly deprived of fitting themes, to whom ocean, 
earth, and sky, are open — who has an eye for the most eva- 
nescent of nature's hues, and the most etherial of her graces 
— who can " live in the rainbow and play in the plighted 
clouds," or send into our hearts the awful loneliness of re- 
12 



130 talfourd's jiiscellaneous writings. 

gions " consecrate to eldest time f Is there nothing in man, 
considered abstractedly from the distinctions of this world — 
nothing in a being who is in the infancy of an immortal life — 
who is lackeyed by " a thousand liveried angels" — who is even 
" splendid in ashes and pompous in the grave" — to awaken 
ideas of permanence, solemnity, and grandeur ] Are there no 
themes sufficiently exalted for poetry in the midst of death and 
of life — in the desires and hopes which have their resting-place 
near the throne of the Eternal — in affections, strange and 
wondrous in their working, and unconquerable by time, or 
anguish, or destiny ] How little comparatively of allusion 
is there even in Shakspeare, whose genius will not be re- 
garded as rigid or austere, to other venerablenesses than 
those of the creation, and to qualities less common than the 
human heart ! The very luxuries which surround his lovers 
— the pensive sweetnesses which steal away the sting from 
his saddest catastrophes — are drawn from man's universal 
immunities, and the eldest sympathies of the universe. The 
divinity which " hedges his kings" is only humanity's finer 
essence. Even his Lear is great only in intellectual might 
and in the terrible strangeness of his afflictions. While in- 
vested with the pomp and circumstance of his station, he is 
fro ward, impatient, thankless — less than a child in his libe- 
rality and in his resentments ; but when he is cast abroad to 
seek a lodging Avith the owl and to endure the fury of the 
elements, and is only a poor and despised old man, the exte- 
rior crust which a life of prosperity had hardened over his 
soul is broken up by the violence of his sorrows, his powers 
expand within his worn and wasted firame, his spirit awakens 
in its long-forgotten strength, and even in the wanderings of 
distraction gives hints of the profoundest philosophy, and 
manifests a real kindliness of nature — a sweet and most af- 
fecting courtesy — of which there was no vestige in the days 
of his pride. The regality of Richard lies not in " compli- 
ment extern" — the philosophy of Hamlet has a princelmess 
above that of his rank — and the beauties of Imogen are 
shed into her soul only by the selectest influences of crea- 
tion. 

The objects which have been usually regarded as the most 
poetical, derive from the soul itself the far larger share of 
their poetical qualities. All their power to elevate, to delight, 



ON THE GENIUS AND WRITINGS OF WORDSWORTH. 131 

or to awe us, which does not arise from mere form, colour, 
and proportion, is manifestly drawn from the instincts com- 
mon to the species. The affections have first consecrated 
all that they revere. "Cornice, frieze, jutting, or archi- 
trave," are fit nestling-places for poetry, chiefly as they are 
the symbols of feelings of grandeur and duration in the 
hearts of the beholders. A poet then who seeks at Once for 
beauty and sublimity in their native home of the human soul 
— who resolves " non sectari rivulos sed pelere f antes " — 
can hardly be accused with justice of rejecting the themes 
most worthy of a bard. His office is, indeed, more arduous 
than if he selected those subjects about which hallowing 
associations have long clustered, and which other poets have 
already rendered sacred. But if he can discover new depths 
of affection in the soul — or throw new tinges of loveliness 
on objects hitherto common, he ought not to be despised in 
proportion to the severity of the work, and the absence of 
extrinsic aid ! Wordsworth's persons are not invested with 
antique robes, nor clad in the symbols of worldly pomp, but 
they are " apparelled hi celestial light." By his power " the 
bare earth and mountains bare " are covered with an ima- 
ginative radiance more holy than that which old Greek poets 
shed over Olympus. The world, as consecrated by his 
poetic wisdom, is an enchanted scene — redolent with sweet 
humanity, and vocal with " echoes from beyond the grave." 

We shall now attempt to express the reasons for our belief 
in Wordsworth's genius, by first giving a few illustrations of 
his chief faculties, and then considering them in their appli- 
cation to the uses of philosophical poetry. 

We allude first to the descriptive faculty, because though 
not the least popular, it is the lowest which Wordsworth pos- 
sesses. He shares it with many others, though few, we 
think, enjoy it in so eminent a degree. It is difficult, indeed, 
to select passages from his works which are merely descrip- 
tive ; but those which approach nearest to portraiture, and 
are least imbued with fantasy, are master-pieces in theur kind. 
Take, for example, the following picture of masses of vapour 
recedhig among the steeps and summits of the mountains, 
after a storm, beneath an azure sky ; the earlier part of 
which seem almost like another glimpse of Milton's heaven ; 



132 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

and the conclusion of wliich impresses us solemnly with the 
most awiul visions of Hebrew prophecy : 

«' A step, 

A single step which freed me from the skirts 

Of the blind vapour, opened to my view 

Glory beyond all glory ever seen 

By waking sense or by the dreaming soul — 

The appearance instantaneously disclosed, 

Was of a mighty city — boldly say 

A wilderness of building, sinking far 

And self-withdrawn into a wondrous depth 

Far sinking into splendour — without end 1 

Fabric it seemed of diamond and of gold, 

With alabaster domes and silver spires; 

And blazing terrace upon terrace high 

Uplifted: here serene pavilions bright 

In avenues disposed; there towers begirt 

With battlements that on their restless fronts 

Bore stars, illumination of all gemsl 

O 'twas an unimaginable sight; 

Clouds, mists, streams, watery rocks, and emerald turf, 

Clouds of all tincture, rocks and sapphire sky, 

Confused, commingled, mutually inflamed. 

Molten together, and composing thus. 

Each lost in each, that marvellous array 

Of temple, palace, citadel, and huge 

Fantastic pomp of structure without name. 

In fleecy folds voluminous enwrapped. 

Right in the midst, where interspace appeared 

Of open court, an object like a throne 

Beneath ar shining canopy of state 

Stood fix'd; and fix'd resemblances were seen 

To implements of ordinary use. 

But vast in size, in substance glorified; 

Such as by Hebrew prophets were beheld 

In vision — forms uncouth of mightiest power. 

For admiration and mysterious awe!" 

Excursion, B. II. 

Contrast with this the delicate grace of the following pic- 
tui'e, which represents the white doe of Rylstone — that most 
beautiful of mysteries — on her Sabbath visit to the grave of 
her sainted lady: — 

" Soft — the dusky trees between 
And down the path through the open green 



ON THE GENIUS AND WRITINGS OF WORDSWORTH. 133 

Where is no living thing to be seen; 
And through yon gateway where is found, 
Beneath the arch with ivy bound, 
Free entrance to the church-yard ground; 
And right across the verdant sod 
Towards the very house of God; 
— Comes gliding in with lovely gleam, 
Comes gliding in serene and slow, 
Soil and silent as a dream, 
A solitary Doe! 
White is she as lily in June; 
And beautious as the silver moon, 
When out of sight the clouds are driven 
And she is left alone in heaven; 
Or like a ship some gentle day 
In sunshine sailing far away, 
A glittering ship, that hath the plain 
Of ocean for her own domain. 
* * * * 

What harmonious pensive changes 

Wait upon her as she ranges 

Round and through this pile of state. 

Overthrown and desolate I 

Now a step or two her way 

Is through space of open day. 

Where the enamour'd sunny light 

Brightens her that was so bright; 

Now doth a delicate shadow fall. 

Falls upon her like a breath, 

From some lofty arch or wall, 

As she passes underneath: 

Now some gloomy nook partakes 

Of the glory which she makes, — 

High ribbed vault of stone, or cell 

With perfect cunning framed, as well 

Of stone and ivy, and the spread 

Of the elder's bushy head; 

Some jealous and forbidding cell. 

That doth the living stars repel. 

And where no flower hath leave to dwell. 

Her's are eyes serenely bright, 

And on she moves — with pace how light! 
Nor spares to stoop her head, and taste 
The dewy turf, with flowers bestrewn; 
And in this way she fares, till at last 
Beside the ridge of a grassy grave 
In quietness she lays her down ; 
Gently as a weary wave 

12* 



134 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

Sinks, when the summer breeze hath died, 
Against an anchor'd vessel's side; 
Even so, without distress, doth she 
Lie down in peace, and lovingly." 

White Doe of Rylstone, Canto I. 

What, as mere description, can be more masterly than the 
following picture of the mountain solitude, where a dog was 
found, after three months' watching by his master's body — 
though the touches which send the feeling of deep loneliness 
into the soul, and the bold imagination which represents the 
huge recess as visited by elemental presences, are produced 
by higher than descriptive powers 1 — 

" It was a cove, a huge recess. 
That keeps till June December's snow; 
A lofty precipice in front, 
A silent tarn below! 
Far in the bosom of Helvellyn, 
Remote from public road or dwelling. 
Pathway, or cultivated land; 
From trace of human foot or hand. 

There sometimes does a leaping fish 
Send through the Tarn a lonely cheer; 
The crags repeat the raven's croak 
In symphony austere; 
Thither the rain-bow comes, the cloud; 
And mists that spread the flying shroud. 
And sun-beams; and the sounding blast. 
That if it could, would hurry past, 
But that enormous barrier binds it fast." 

We must abstain from farther examples of the descriptive 
faculty, and allude to that far higher gift which Wordsworth 
enjoys m his profound acquaintance with the sanctities of the 
soul. He does not make us feel the strength of the passions, 
by their violent contests in a transient storm, but the measure- 
less depth of the affections when they are stillest and most 
holy. We often meet in his works with little passages in 
which we seem almost to contemplate the well-springs of 
pure emotion and gentle pathos, and to see the old clefts in 
the rock of humanity whence they arise. In these we may 
not rarely perceive the true elements of tales of the purest 



ON THE GENIUS AND WRITINGS OF WORDSWORTH. 1 35 

sentiment and most genuine tragedies. No poet has done 
sucii justice to the depth and the fulness of maternal love. 
What, for instance, can be more tear-moving than these ex- 
clamations of a mother, who for seven years has heard no 
tidings of an only child, abandoning the false stay of a pride 
which ever does unholy violence to the sufferer ? — 

" Neglect me ! no, I suffered long 
From that ill thoug-ht; and, being blind, ^ 

Said, ' Pride shall help me in my wrong ; 
Kind mother have I been, as kind 
As ever breathed :' and that is true ; 
I've wet my path with tears like dew. 
Weeping for him when no one knew. 
My son, if thou be humbled, poor, 
Hopeless of honour, or of gain. 
Oh! do not dread thy mother's door ; 
Think not of me with grief or pain : 
I now can see with better eyes ; 
And worldly grandeur I despise. 
And fortune with her gifts and lies." 

How grand and fearful are the foUowmg conjectures of 
her agony ! 

"Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan, 
Maim'd, mangled by inhuman men ; 

Or thou upon a desert thrown 
Inheritest the lion's den; 

Or hast been summon'd to the deep. 

Thou, thou and all thy mates, to keep, 

An incommunicable sleep." 

And how triumphant does the great instinct appear in its 
vanquishing even the dread of mortal chilliness — asking and 
looking for spectres — and concluding that their appearance 
is not possible, because they come not to its intense 
cravmgs : — 

" I look for ghosts ; but none will force 
Their way to me: 'tis falsely said 
That ever there was intercourse 
Between the living and the dead ; 
For surely then I should have sight 
Of him I wait for day and night. 
With love and longings infinite." 



1 36 talfourd's miscellaitoous writings. 

Of the same class is the poem on the death of a noble 
youth, who fell m attempting to bound over a chasm of the 
Wharf, and left Ws mother childless. — What a volume of 
thought is there in the little stanzas which follows: — 

" If for a lover the lady wept, 
A solace she might borrow 
From death, and from the passion of death, — 
Old Wharf might heal her sorrow. 

She weeps not for the wedding-day. 

Which was to be to-morrow : 
Her hope was a farther-looking hope, 

And her's is a raother's sorrow 1" 

Here we are made to feel not only the vastness of mater- 
nal affection, but its difference from that of lovers. The 
last, being a passion, has a tendency to grasp and cling to 
objects which may sustain it, and thus fixes even on those 
things which have swallowed its hopes, and draws them into 
its likeness. Death itself thus becomes a passion to one 
whom it has bereaved; or the waters which flowed over the 
object of once happy love, become a solace to the mourner, 
who nurses holy visions by their side. But an instinct 
wliich has none of that tendency to go beyond itself, when 
its only object is lost, has no earthly relief, but is left utterly 
desolate. The hope of a lover looks chiefly to a single point 
of time as its goal; — that of a mother is spread equally over 
existence, and when cut down, at once the blossoming ex- 
pectations of a whole Hfe are withered for ever. 

Can any thing be more true or intense than the following 
description of remorse, rejecting the phantoms of supersti- 
tious horror as powerless, and representing lovely and im- 
complaining forms of those whose memories the sufferer had 
dishonoured by his errors, casting their silent looks perpe- 
tually upon hun : 

"Feebly must they have felt 

Who, in old time, attired with snakes and whips 
The vengeful Furies. Beautiful regards 
Were turned on me — the face of her I loved ; 
The wife and mother pitifully fixing 
Tender reproaches, insupportable I" 



ON THE GENIUS AND AVRITINGS OF WORDSWORTH. 137 

We will give but one short passage more to show the 
depth of Wordsworth's insight into our nature — but it is a 
passage which we think unequalled in its kind in the com- 
pass of poetry. Never surely was such a glimpse of beatific 
vision opened amidst mortal affliction; such an elevation 
given to seeming weakness; such consolation ascribed to 
bereaved love by the very heightening of its own intensities. 
The poet contends, that those whom we regard as dying 
broken-hearted for the loss of friends, do not really perish 
through despair ; but have such vivid prospects of heaven, 
and such a present sense that those who have been taken 
from them are waiting for them there, that they wear them- 
selves away in longings after the reality, and so hasten to 
enjoy it : — 

" Full oft the innooent sufferer sees 

Too clearly; feels too vividly ; and longs 

To realize the vision with intense 

And over-constant yearning — there — there lies 

The excess by which the balance is destroy'd. 

Too, too contracted are these walls of flesh, 

This vital warmth too cold, these visual orbs, 

Though inconceivably endow'd, too dim 

For any passion of the soul that leads 

To ecstasy; and, all the crooked paths 

Of time and change disdaining, takes its course 

Along the line of limitless desires," 

But the imaginative faculty is that with which Words- 
worth is most eminently gifted. As the term imagination 
is often very loosely employed, it will be necessary for us 
here to state as clearly as possible our idea of its meaning. 
In our sense, it is that power by which the spiritualities of 
our nature and the sensible images derived from the mate- 
rial universe are commingled at the will of the possessor. 
It has thus a two-fold operation — the bodying forth of feel- 
ings, sentiments, and ideas, in beautiful and majestic forms, 
and giving to them local habitations ; and the informing the 
colours and the shapes of matter with the properties of the 
soul. The first of these workings of the faculty supplies the 
highest excellencies of the orator, and the philosophic bard. 
When Sophocles represents the the eternal laws of morality 
as " produced in the pure regions of celestial air — having the 



1 38 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

Olympian alone for their parent — as not subject to be touched* 
by the decays of man's mortal nature, or to be shaded by 
oblivion — for the divinity is mighty within them, and waxes 
not old :"* it is this which half gives to them a majestic per- 
sonality, and dimly figures out their attributes. By the same 
process, the imaginative faculty, aiming at results less sublime 
but more definite and complete, gave Individual shape to 
loves, graces, and affections, and endowed them with the 
breath of life. By this process, it shades over the sorrows 
which it describes by the beauties and the graces of nature, 
and tinges with gentle colouring the very language of afflic- 
tion. In the second mode of its operation. On the other hand, 
it moves over the universe like the spirit of God on the face 
of the waters, and peoples it with glorious shapes, as in the 
Greek mythology, or sheds on it a consecrating radiance, and 
imparts to it an intense sjmipathy, as in the poems of these 
more reflective days. Although a harmonizing faculty, it 
can by the law of its essence only act on things wliich have 
an inherent likeness. It brings out the secret affinities of its 
objects ; but it cannot combine things which nature has not 
prepared for union^ because it does not add, but transfuses. 
Hence there can be no wild incongruity, no splendid confu- 
sion in its works. Those which are commonly regarded as 
its productions in the metaphorical speeches of " Irish elo- 
quence," are their very reverse, and may serve by contrast 
to explain its realities. The highest and purest of its efforts 
are when the intensest elements of the human soul are min- 
gled inseparably with the vastest majesties of the universe ; 
as where Lear identifies Ms age with that of the heavens, 
and calls on them to avenge his wrongs by their community 

* This passage — one of the noblest instances of the moral sublime 
— is from the Theban (Edipus, where it is uttered by the Chorus on 
some of the profane scoffs of the fated locasta : 

<S>u<n^ Miigmv frticliv, seTs 

M*S TTols M-Ba. }lCtla.K0lfACl,l7lt. 



ON THE GENIUS AND WRITINGS OP WORDSWORTH. 1 39 

of lot ; and where Timon "fixes liis everlasting mansion upon 
the beached shore of the salt flood," that " once a day with 
its embossed froth the turbulent surge may cover him," 
scorning human tears, but desiring the vast ocean for his 
eternal mourner ! 

Of this transfusing and reconciling faculty — whether its 
office be to " cloath upon," or to spiritualize — Mr. Words- 
worth is, in the highest degree, master. Of this, abundant 
proofs wUl be found in the latter portion of this article ; at 
present we will only give a few examples. The fii'st of 
these is one of the grandest instances of noble daring, com- 
pletely successful, which poetry exhibits. After a magnifi- 
cent picture of a single yew-tree, and a fine allusion to its 
readiness to furnish spears for old battles, the poet pro- 
ceeds : 



" But worthier still of note 



Are those fraternal four of Borrowdale, 

Jola''d in one solemn and capacious grove ; 

Huge trunks I — and each particular trunk a growth 

Of intertwisted fibres serpentine, 

Upcoiling, and inveterately convolved, — 

Not uninformed by fantasy and looks 

That threaten the profane; — a pillared shade 

Upon whose grassless floor of red-brown hue, 

By sheddings from the pining umbrage tinged 

Perennially — beneath whose sable roof 

Of boughs, as if for festal purpose deckM 

By unrejoicing berries, ghostly shapes 

May meet at noon-tide — Fear and trembling Hope, 

Silence and Foresight — Death the Skeleton 

And Time the Shadow — there to celebrate, 

As in a natural temple scatter'd o'er 

With altars undisturb'd of mossy stone, 

United worship; or in mute repose 

To lie, and listen to the mountain flood 

Murmuring from Glamarara's inmost caves." 

Let the reader, when that first glow of intuitive admira- 
tion which tills passage cannot fail to inspire is past, look 
back on the exquisite gradations by which it naturally prO" 
ceeds from mere description to the sublime personification of 
the most awful abstractions, and the union of their fearful 
shapes in strange worship, or in listening to the deepest of 
nature's voices. The first lines — interspersed indeed with 



140 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

epithets drawn from the operations of mind, and therefore 
giving to them an imaginative tinge — are, for the most part, 
a mere picture of the august brotherhood of trees, though 
their very sound is in more august accordance with their 
theme than most of the examples usually produced of 
"echoes to the sense." Having completely set before us 
the image of the scene, the poet begins that enchantment by 
which it is to be converted into a fitting temple for the noon- 
tide spectres of Death and Time, by the general intimation 
that it is " not uninformed by fantasy and looks that threaten 
the profane" — then by the mere epithet pillared gives us the 
more particular feeling of a fane — then, by reference to the 
actual circumstances of the grassless floor of red-brown hue, 
preserves to ns the peculiar features of the scene which thus 
he is hallowing — and at last gives to the roof and its berries 
a strange air of unrejoicing festivity — until we are prepared 
for the introduction of the phantasms, and feel that the scene 
could be fitted to no less tremendous a conclave. The place, 
without losing one of its individual features, is decked for the 
reception of these noon-tide shades, and we are prepared to 
muse on them with unshrinking eyes. How by a less ad- 
venturous but not less delightful process, does the poet im- 
part to an evening scene on the Thames, at Richmond, the 
serenity of his own heart, and tinge it with softest and 
■maddest hues of the fancy and the affections ! The verses 
have all the richness of Collins, to whom they allude, and 
breathe a more profound and universal sentiment than is 
found in his sky-tinctured poetry. 

" How richly glows the water's breast 

Before us tinged with evening hues, 
While, facing thus the crimson west, 

The boat her silent course pursues! 
And see how dark the backward stream ! 

A little moment past so smiling! 
And still perchance, with faithless gleam, 

Some other loiterer beguiling. 

Such views the youthful bard allure ; 

But, heedless of the following gloom, 
He deems their colours shall endure 

Till peace go with him to the tomb. 



ON THE GENIUS AND WRITINGS OF WORDSWORTH. 141 

And let him nurse his fond deceit, 

And what if he must die in sorrow ! 
Who would not cherish dreams so sweet, 

Though grief and pain may come to-morrow ? 

Glide gently thus for ever glide, 

O Thames ! that other bards may see 
As lovely visions by thy side 

As now, fair river! come to me. 
O glide, fair stream ! for ever so. 

Thy quiet soul on all bestowing. 
Till all our minds for over flow, 

As thy deep waters now are flowing. 

Vain thought! — Yet be as now thou art, 

That in thy waters may be seen 
The image of a poet's heart. 

How bright, how solemn, how serene ! 

The following delicious sonnet, inspired by the same scene, 
is one of the latest effusions of its author. We do not here 
quote it on account of its allusion to one of the most delight- 
ful of poets — nor of the fine unbroken ligament by which the 
harmony listened to by the later bard is connected with that 
which the earlier drank m, by the lineage of the songsters 
who keep up the old ravishment — but of that imaginative 
power, by which a sacredness is imparted to the place and 
to the birds, as though they performed unresting worship in 
the most glorious of cathedrals. 

" Fame tells of groves from England far away — * 
Groves that inspire the nightingale to trill 
And modulate, with subtle reach of skill 
Elsewhere unmatch'd, her ever-varying lay ; 
Such bold report 1 venture to gainsay : 
For I have heard the choir of Richmond-hill 
Chaunting with indefatigable bill ; 
While I bethought me of a distant day; 
When, haply under shade of that same wood, 
And scarcely conscious of the dashing oars 
Plied steadily between those willowy shores 
The sweet-soul'd Poet of the Seasons stood — 
Listening, and listening long, in rapturous mood. 
Ye heavenly birds I to your progenitors." 

The following " Thought of a Briton on the subjugation of 
* Wallachia is the country alluded to. 



142 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

Switzerland," has an elemental grandeur imbued with the 
intensest sentiment, which places it among the highest efforts 
of the imaginative faculty. 

" Two voices are there ; one is one of the sea. 
One of the mountains; each a mighty voice: 
In both from age to age thou didst rejoice, 
They were thy chosen music, Liberty ! 
There came a tyrant, and with holy glee 
Thou fought'st against him; but hast vainly striven, 
Thou from thine Alpine holds at length are driven, 
Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee. 
Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft ; 
Then cleave, O cleave, to that which still is left ; 
For, high-soul'd maid, what sorrow would it be, 
That mountain-floods should thunder as before, 
And ocean bellow from his rocky shore. 
And neither awful voice be heard by thee !" 

We have thus feebly attempted to give some glimpse into 
the essence of Wordsworth's powers — of his skill in delinea- 
ting the forms of creation — of his insight into the spii'it of 
man — and of his imaginative faculty. How he has applied 
these gifts to philosophical poetry, and what are the results 
of his contemplation, by theu' aid, on the external tmiverse — 
human Mfe — individual character — the vicissitudes of indivi- 
dual fortune — society at large— and the prospects of the spe- 
cies — we shall next proceed more particularly to examine. 

The spirit of contemplation influences and directs all 
Wordsworth's poetical faculties. He does not create a va- 
riety of individual forms to vivify them with the Promethean 
fire of dramatic genius, and exhibit the living struggle of their 
passions and their affections in opposition to each other, or 
to destiny. " The moving accident is not liis trade." He 
looks on humanity as from a more exalted sphere, though 
he feels his kmdred with it while he gazes, and yearns over 
it with deepest sympathy. No poet of ancient or modem 
times has dared so entirely to repose on the mere strength 
of his own powers. Others, indeed, have given liints of the 
divinest truths, even amidst their wildest and most passion- 
ate efflisions. The tragedies of Sophocles, for example, 
abound in moralities expressed with a grace and precision 
which often ally the sentiment to an image and almost define 
it to the senses. In Shakspeare the wisdom is as much 



ON THE GENIUS AND WRITINGS OP WORDSWORTH. 143 

deeper as the passion is intenser ; the minds of the charac- 
ters, under the strongest excitements of love, hope, or agony, 
grow bright as well as warm, and in their fervid career shed 
abroad sparkles of fire, which light up for an instant, the 
inmost sanctuaries of our nature. But few have ventured to 
send into the world essentially meditative poems, which none 
but the thoughtful can truly enjoy. Lucretius is the only 
writer of antiquity who has left a great work of this descrip- 
tion ; and he has unhappily lavished the boundless riches of 
genius on doctrmes which are in direct opposition to the 
spirit of poetry. An apostle of a more genial faith, Words- 
worth, stands pre-eminently — almost alone — a divine philo- 
.^opher among the poets. It has been his singular lot, in 
this late age of the world, to draw little from those sources of 
interest which incident and situation supply — and to rest his 
claim to the gratitude and admiration of the people on his 
majestical contemplations of man and the universe. 

The philosophical poetry of Wordsworth is not more dis- 
tinct from the dramatic, or the epic, than from the merely 
didactic and moral. He has thrown into it as much of pro- 
found affection, as much of ravishing loveliness, as much of 
delicate fantasy, as adorn the most romantic tales, or the 
most passionate tragedies. If he sees all things " far as an- 
gel's ken," he regards them with human love. His imagina- 
tion is never obscured amidst his reasonings, but is ever ac- 
tive to embody the beautiful and the pure, and to present to 
us the most august moralities in " clear dream and solemn 
vision." Instead of reaching sublime conclusions by a pain- 
ful and elaborate process, he discloses them by a single touch, 
he fixes them on our hearts for ever. So intense are his 
perceptions of moral beauty, that he feels the spirit of good 
however deeply hidden, and opens to our view the secret 
springs of love and of joy, where all has ap|ieared barren to 
the ungifted observer. He can trace, prolong, and renew 
within us, those mysterious risings of delight in the soul 
which " may make a chysome child to smile," and which, 
when half-experienced at long intervals in riper age, are to 
us the assurances of a better life. He follows with the nice 
touch of unerring sympathy all the most subtle workings of 
the spirit of good, as it makes its little sanctuaries iii hearts 
unconscious of its presence, and blends its mfluences un- 
heeded with ordinary thoughts, hopes, and sorrows. The 



144 talfourb's miscellaneous writings. 

old prerogatives of humanity, which long usage has made 
appear common, put on their own air of grandeur while he 
teaches us to revere them. When we &st read his poetry, 
we look on all the mysteries of our being with a new reve- 
rence, and feel like children who, having been brought up in 
some deserted palace, learn for the first time the regality of 
their home — imderstand a venerableness in the faded escutch- 
eons with which they were accustomed to play — and feel 
the figures on the stained windows, or on the decaying tapes- 
try, which were only grotesque before speaking to their 
hearts in ancestral voices. 

The consecration which Wordsworth has shed over the 
external world is in a great measm'e peculiar to his genius. 
In the Hebrew poetry there was no trace of particular de- 
scription — but general images, such as of tall cedars, of green 
pastures, or of stiU waters, were alone permitted to aid the af- 
fections of the devout worshipper. The feeling of the vast 
and indistinct prevailed ; for all in religion was symbolical and 
mysterious, and pointed to " temples not made with hands, 
eternal in the heavens." In the exquisite master-pieces of 
Grecian inspiration, free nature's gi-ace was almost excluded 
by the opposite tendency to admire only the definite and the 
palpable. Hence, the pictures of nymphs, satyrs, and deities, 
were perpetually substituted for views of the magnificence 
of earth and heaven. In the romantic poetry of modern 
times, the open face of nature has again been permitted to 
smile on us, and its freshness to glide into our souls. Nor 
has there been wanting " craft of delicate spirits " to shed 
lovelier tinges of the imagination on all its scenes — to scatter 
among them classical images like Ionic temples among the 
fair glades and deep woods of some rich domain — to call 
dainty groups of fairies to hold their revellings upon the vel- 
vet turf — or afford glimpses of angel wings floating at even- 
tide in the golden perspective. But the imagination of 
Wordsworth has given to the external universe a charm 
which has never else, extensively at least, been shed over it. 
He has not personified the glorious objects of creation — nor 
peopled them with beautiful and majestic shapes — but, with- 
out depriving them of their own reality, has imparted to 
them a life which makes them objects of affection and reve- 
rence. He enables us at once to enjoy the contemplation of 
their colours and forms, and to love them as human firiends. 



ON THE GENIUS AND. WRITINGS OF WORDSWORTH. 145 

He consecrates earth by the mere influences of sentiment 
and thought, and renders its scenes as enchanted as though 
he had filled them with Oriental wonders. Touched by him, 
the hiUs, the rocks, the hedge-rows, and the humblest flowers 
shine in a magic lustre " which never was by sea or land," 
and which yet is strangely familiar to our hearts. These are 
not hallowed by him with " angel visits," nor by the pre- 
sence of fair and immortal shapes, but by the remembrances 
of early joy, by lingering gleams of a brightness which has 
passed away, and dawnings of a glory to be revealed in the 
fulness of time. The lowliest of nature's graces have power 
to move and to delight him. " The clouds are touched, and 
in their silent faces does he read unutterable love." He 
listens to the voice of the cuckoo in early spring, till he " be- 
gets again the golden time of his childhood," and tiU the 
world, which is " fit home " for that mysterious bird, appears 
" an airy unsubstantial place." At the root of some old 
thorn, or beneath the branches of some time-honoured tree, 
he opens the sources of delicious musing, and suggests the 
first hints which lead through a range of human thoughts to 
the glories of our final destiny. Wlien we traverse with 
liim the " bare earth and mountains bare," we fed that " the 
place whereon we are standing is holy ground;" the melan- 
choly brook can touch our souls as truly as a tragic catas- 
trophe ; the sjilendours of the western sky give intimation 
of " a joy past joy ;" and the meanest flowers, and scanty 
blades of grass, awaken within us hopes too rapturous for 
smiles, and " thoughts which do often lie too deep for tears." 
To give all the instances of this sublime operation of the 
imaginative faculty in Wordsworth, would be to quote the 
far larger portion of his works. A few lines, however, firom 
the poem composed on the Banks of the Wye, will give our 
readers a deep glimpse into the inmost heart of his poetry, 
and of his poetical system, on the communion of the soul of 
man with the spirit of the universe. In this rapturous effli- 
sion — in which, with a wise prodigality, he hints and inti- 
mates the profoundest of those feelings wliich vivify all he 
has created — he gives the foDowing view of the progress of 
his sympathy with the external world : — 

" Nature Ihen 



(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days 
13* 



146 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

And their glad animal movements, all gone by) 
To me was all in all. — I cannot paint 
What then I was. The sounding cataract 
Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock, 
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, 
Their colours and their forms, were then to me- 
An appetite: a feeling and a love, 
That had no need of a remoter charm 
By thought supplied, or any interest 
Unborrow'd from the eye. That time is past. 
And all its aching joys are now no more, 
And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this 
Faint I, nor mourn, nor murmur; other gifts 
Have foUow'd, for such loss I would believe 
Abundant recompense. For I have learn'd 
To look on nature, not as in the hour 
Of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes 
The still sad music of humanity, 
Not harsh, nor grating, though of ample power 
To chasten and subdue. And I have felt 
A spirit which disturbs me with the joy 
Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime 
Of something far more deeply interfused. 
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, 
And the round ocean, and the living air. 
And the blue sky, and in the mind of mind: 
A motion and a spirit, that impels 
All thinking things, all objects of all thought, 
And rolls through all things." 



There are none of the workings of our poet's imaginative 
facility more wonderful in themselves, or more productive of 
high thoughts and intense sympathies, than those which have 
for their objects the grand abstractions of humanity — Life 
and Death, Childhood and Old Age. Every period of our 
being is to him not only filled with its owm peculiar endear- 
ments and joys, but dignified by its own sanctities. The 
common forms of life assume a new venerableness when he 
touches them — for he makes us feel them in their connexion 
with our immortality — even as the uncouth vessels of the 
Jewish law appeared sublime to those who felt that they were 
dedicated to the immediate ser\ice of Heaven. He ever 
leaves us conscious that the existence on whose beginning he 
expatiates, wiU endm-e for ever. He traces out those of its 
fibres which are eternal in their essence. He discovers in 
every part of our earthly course manifold intimations that 



ON THE GENIUS AND WRITINGS OF WORDSWORTH. 147 

these our human hearts will never die. ChUdhood is, to him 
not only the season of novelty, of innocence, of joyous spi- 
rits, and of mounting hope — but of a dream-like glory which 
assiu'es to us that this world is not our final home. Age 
to him, is not a descent into a dark valley, but a " final 
eminence," where the wise may sit " in awful sovereignty " 
as on a high peak among the mountains in placid summer, 
and commune with Heaven, undisturbed by the lesser noises 
of the tumultuous world. One season of life is bound to 
another by " the natural piety " which the unchanging forms 
of nature preserve, and death comes at last over the deep 
and tranquil stream as it is about to emerge into a lovelier 
sunshine, as " a shadow thrown softly and lightly from a 
passing cloud." 

The Ode in which Wordsworth particularly developes the 
intimations of immortality to be found in the recollections of 
early childhood, is, to our feelings, the noblest piece of lyric 
poetry in the world. It was the first poem of its author 
which we read, and never shall we forget the sensations 
which it excited within us. We had heard the cold sneers 
attached to his name — we had glanced over criticisms, 
" lighter than vanity," which represented him as an object 
for scorn « to point its slow unmoving finger at " — and here 
—in the works of this derided poet— we found a new vein 
of imaginative sentiment opened to us— sacred recollections 
brought back on our hearts with all the freshness of novelty, 
and all the venerableness of far-oflf time— the most mysteri- 
ous of old sensations traced to a celestial origin— and the 
shadows cast over the opening of life from the realities of 
eternity renewed before us with a sense of their supernal 
causes ! Whar a gift did we then inherit ! To have the best 
and most imperishable of intellectual treasures— the mighty 
world of reminiscences of the days of infhncy— set before 
us m a new and holier light ; to find objects of deepest ve- 
neration where we had only been accustomed to love ; to 
feel in all the touching mysteries of our past being the sym- 
jjols and assurances of our immortal destiny ! Tlie poet has 
here spanned our mortal life as with a glorious rain-bow, ter- 
minating on one side in infency, and on the other in the 
realms of blessedness beyond the grave, and shedding even 
upon the middle of that course tints of unearthly colouring. 
The following is the view he has given of the fading glory of 



1 48 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

childliood — dra\\'n in part from Oriental fiction, but embody- 
ing tJie profoundest of elemental truths : — 

" Our birth is but a sleep, and a forgfetting' : 
Tlio soul tliat rises with us, our life's star. 
Hath elsewhere known its setting, 

And conieth iVoav alar ; 
Not in entire tbrgctfuhiess. 
And not in utter nalvednoss. 
But traiiingf clouds of glory do we come 

From God that is our home; 
Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! 
Shades of the prison-house begin to close 

Upon the growing Boy, 
But he beholds the light, and whence it flows^ 

He sees it in his joy ; 
The Youth that daily farther from the sast 
Must travel, still is Nature's priest, 
And by the vision splendid 
Is on his way attended ; 
At length the man perceives it die away. 
And fade into the light of common day I'* 

But the following is tlie noblest passage of the whole ; and 
such an outpouring of tJiought and feeling — such a piece of 
inspired pliilosophy — we do not believe exists elsewhere in 
inunan latiguniio : — 

" O joy ! that in our embers 
Is soniethijig that dotii live, 
That nature yet remembers 
What was tugitive ! 
The thoiiglit of our ]iiist years in me doth breed 
Perpetual betiedietions : not indeed 
For that which is most wortiiy to be blest; 
Hclight and lilicrty, the simple creed 
Of Childhood, whether tUittering or at rest, 
With new-horn hope for ever in his breast: — 
Not for those I raise 
The song of thanks and praise ; 
But for tliose obstinate questionings 
Of sense and outward things, 
]'\iHings from us, vanishings; 
Blank misgivings of a Creature 
Moving about in worlds not reali/.'d, 
High instincts, betore wliieh our mortal Nature 
Did tremble like a guilty Thing surpris'd ; 
But for those tirst atVcctions, 
Tliose shadowy recollections, 
Wiiieii, be tiiey vihat they maj-,. 



ON THE GENIUS AND WRITINGS OP WORDSWORTH. 149 

Are yet the fountain light of all our day, 
Are yet a master light of all our seeing; 

Uphold us, cherish us, and make 
Our noisy years seem moments in the being 
Of the eternal Silenee: truths tiiat wake, 

To perish never; 
Which neither listlessness.nor mad endeavour, 

Nor Man nor Boy, 
Nor all that is at enmity with joy. 
Can utterly abolish or destroy I 

Hence, in a season of calm weather, 
Tliough inland far we be. 
Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea 
Which brouijht us hither, 
Can in a moment travel thitiier. 
And see the Children sport upon the shore, 
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore." 



After tliis rapturous flight the author thus leaves to repose 
on the quiet lap of humanity, and soothes us with a strain of 
such mingled solemnity and tenderness, as " might make 
angels weep :" 



" What though the radiance which was once so bright, 

Be now forever taken from my sight. 

Though nothing can bring back the hour 

Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower ; 
We will grieve not, rather find 
Strength in what remains behind, 
In the primal sympathy 
Which having been, must ever be, 
In the soothing thoughts that spring 
Out of human suffering. 
In the faith that looks through death, 

In years that bring the philosophic mind. 



And oh ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, 

Think not of any severing of our loves ! 

Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; 

I only have relinquish'd one delight 

To live beneath your more habitual sway. 

I love the Brooks which down their channels fret, 

Even more than when I tripp'd lightly as they ; 

The innocent brightness of a new-born Day 

Is lovely yet ; 
The Clouds that gather round the setting sun 
Do take a sober colouring from an eye 



150 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality ; 
Another race hath been, and other palms are won. 
Thanks to the human heart by which we live, 
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, 
To me the meanest flower that blows can give 
Thoughts that do often lie loo deep for tears." 

The genius of the poet, which thus dignifies and consecrates 
the abstractions of our nature, is scarcely less felicitious in 
its pictures of society at large, and in its philosophical delinea- 
tions of the characters and fortunes of individual man. Seen 
through the holy mediiun of his imagination, all things ap- 
pear "bright and solenm and serene" — the asperities of our 
earthly condition are softened away — and the most gentle 
and evanescent of its hues gleam and tremble over it. He 
delights to trace out those ties of sympathy by which the 
meanest of beings are connected with the general heart. He 
touches the delicate strings by which the great family of man 
are bound together, and thence draws forth sounds of choicest 
music. He makes us partake of those joys wliich are " spread 
thi'ough the earth to be caught in stray gifts by whoever will 
find " them — discloses the hidden wealth of the soul — finds 
beauty every where, and " good in every thing." He draws 
character with the softest pencil, and shades it with the pen- 
sive tints of gentlest thought. The pastoral of The Brothers 
— the story of Michael — and the histories in the Excursion 
which the priest gives while standing among the rustic graves 
of the church-yard, among the mountains, are full of exquisite 
poiti'aits, touched and softened by a divine imagination which 
human love inspu'es. He rejoices also to exhibit that holy 
process by which the influences of creation are shed abroad 
in tlie heart, to excite, to mould, or to soften. We select the 
following steinzas from many passages of this kind of equal 
beauty, because in the fantasy of nature's making " a lady 
of her own," the object of the poet is necessarily developed 
with more singleness than where reference is ^cidentaUy 
made to the effect of scenery on the mind : — 

"Three years she grew in sun and shower, 
Then Nature said, a lovelier flower 
On earth was never sown ; 
This child I to myself will take, 
She shall be mine, and I will make 
A lady of my own ! 



ON THE GENIUS AND WRITINGS OP WORDSWORTH. 151 

Myself will to the darling be 

Both law and impulse : and with me 

The girl, in rock and plain, 

In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, 

Shall feel an overseeing power, 

To kindle or restrain. 

She shall be sportive as the fawn, 
That wild with glee across the lawn 
Or up the mountain springs ; 
And her's shall be the breathing balm, 
And her's the silence and the calm 
Of mute insensate things. 

The floating clouds their state shall lend 

To her ; for her the willow bend ; 

Nor shall she fail to see 

Even in the motions of the storm 

Grace that shall mould the maiden's form 

By silent sympathy. 

The stars of midnight shall be dear 

To her; and she shall lean on air 

In many a secret place 

Where rivulets dance their wayward round, 

And beauty born of murmuring sound 

Shall pass into her face !" 

But we must break off to give a passage in a bolder and 
most passionate strain, which represents the effect of the tro- 
pical grandeur and voluptuousness of nature on a wild and 
fiery spirit — at once awakening and half-redeeming its irre- 
gular desires. It is from the poem of" Ruth," — a piece where 
the most profound of human affections is disclosed amidst the 
richest imagery, and incidents of wild romance are told with 
a Grecian purity of expression. The impulses of a beautiful 
and daring youth are thus represented as inspired by Indian 
scenery : , 

" The wind, the tempest roaring high, 
The tumult of a tropic sky, 
Might well be dangerous food. 
For him, a youth to whom was given 
So much of earth, so much of heaven, 
And such impetuous blood. 



1 52 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

Whatever in those climes he found 

Irregular in sight or sound, 

Did to his mind impart 

A kindred impulse, seem'd allied , 

To his own powers, and justified 

The workings of his heart. 

Nor less to feed voluptuous thought. 
The beauteous forms of Nature wrought, 
Fair trees and lovely flowers ; 
The breezes their own languor lent ; 
The stars had feelings which they sent 
Into those gorgeous bowers. 

Yet in his worst pursuits, I ween 
That sometimes there did intervene 
Pure hopes of high intent ; 
For passions link'd to forms as fair 
And stately, needs must have their share 
Of noble sentiment." 

We can do little more than enumerate those pieces of nar- 
rative and character, which we esteem the best in their kind 
of our author's works. The old Cumberland Beggar is one 
of those which linger most tenderly on our memories. The 
poet here takes almost the lowliest of his species — an aged 
mendicant, one of the last of that class who made regular 
circuits amidst the cottages of the north — and after a vivid 
picture of his frame bent with years, of his slow motion and de- 
cayed senses, he asserts them not divorced from good — traces 
out the links which bind him to his fellows — and shows the 
benefit which even he can diffuse in. his romids, while he 
serves as a record to bind together past deeds and offices of 
charity — compels to acts of love by " the mild necessity of 
use " those whose hearts would otherwise harden — gives to 
the young " the first mild touch of sympathy and thought, 
in which they find their kindred with a world where want 
and sorrow are " — and enables even the poor to taste the 
joy of bestowing. This last blessing is thus set forth and il- 
lustrated by a precious example of self-denying goodness and 
cheerful hope, which is at once more tear-moving and more 
sublime than the finest things in Cowper : — 

" Man is dear to man ; the poorest poor 

Long for some moments in a weary life 



ON THE GENIUS AND WRITINGS OF WORDSWORTH. 153 

When they can know and feel that they have been, 

Themselves, the fathers and the dealers out 

Of some small blessings; have been kind to such 

As needed kindness, for this sing;le cause, 

That we have all of us one human heart. 

— Such pleasure is to one kind being known, 

My neighbour, when with punctual care, each week 

Duly as Friday comes, though prest herself 

With her own wants, she from her chest of meal 

Takes one unsparing handful for the scrip 

Of this old mendicant, and, from her door 

Returning with invigorated heart, 

Sits by her fire, and builds her hope in Heaven." 

Then, in the Excursion, there is the story of the Ruined 
Cottage, with its admirable gradations, more painful than 
the pathetic narratives of its author usually are, yet not 
without redeeming traits of sweetness, and a reconciling 
spirit which takes away its sting. There, too, is the intense 
histoiy of the Solitary's sorrows — there the story of the 
Hanoverian and the Jacobite, who learned to snatch a sym- 
pathy from their bitter disputings, grew old in controversy 
and in friendship, and were buried side by side — there the 
picture of Oswald, the gifted and generous and graceful hero 
of 'the mountain solitude, who was cut off in the blossom of 
his youth — there the record of that pleasurable sage, whose 
house death, after forty years of forbearance, visited with 
thronging summonses, and took off his family one after the 
other, "with intervals of peace," till he too, with cheerful 
thoughts about him, was " overcome by unexpected sleep in 
one blest moment," and as he lay on the " warm lap of his 
mother-earth," " gathered to his fathers." There are those 
fine vestiges, and yet finer traditions and conjectures, of the 
good knight Sir Alfi'ed Irthing, the " mild-hearted champion" 
who had retired in Elizabeth's days to a retreat among the 
hills, and had drawn around him a kindred and a family. 
Of him nothing remained but a gentle fame in the hearts of 
the villagers, an uncouth monumental stone grafted on the 
church-walls, which the sagest antiquarian might muse over 
in vain, and his name engraven in a wreath or posy around 
three bells with which he had endowed the spire. " So," 
exclaims the poet, in strains as touching and majestic as 
ever were breathed over the transitory grandeur of earth — 
14 



1 54 talfoord's miscellaneous writings. 

" So fails, so languishes, grows dim and dies, 
All that this world is proud of. From their spheres 
The stars of human glory are cast down ; 
Perish the roses, and the flowers of kings, 
Princes and emperors, and the crowns and palms 
Of all the mighty, withered, and consumed." 

In the Excursion, too, is the exquisite tale of Poor Ellen — 
a seduced and forsaken girl — from which we will give one 
affecting incident, scarcely to be matched, for truth and 
beauty, through the many sentimental poems and tales 
which have been founded on a similar wo : 



I — Beside the cottage in which Ellen dwelt 
Stands a tall ash-tree; to whose topmost twig 
A Thrush resorts, and annually chaunts. 
At morn and evening from that naked perch. 
While all the undergrove is thick with leaves, 
A time-beguiling ditty, for delight 
Of his fond partner, silent in the nest, 
— ' Ay why,' said Ellen, sighing to herself, 
' Why do not words, and kiss, and solemn pledge ; 
And nature that is kind in Woman's breast, 
And reason that in Man is wise and good, 
And fear of Him who is a righteous Judge, 
Why do not these prevail for human life, 
To keep two hearts together, that began 
Their spring-time with one love, and that have need 
Of mutual pity and forgiveness, sweet 
To grant, or be received, while that poor bird, 
— O come and hear him! Thou who hast to me 
Been faithless, hear him, though a lowly creature, 
One of God's simple children that yet know not 
The universal Parent, how he sings 
As if he wish'd the firmament of Heaven 
Should listen, and give back to him the voice 
Of his triumphant constancy and love; 
The proclamation that he makes, how far 
His darkness doth transcend our fickle light !' 

Such was the tender passage, not by me 
Repeated without loss of simple phrase, 
Which I perused, even as the words had been 
Committed by forsaken Ellen's hand 
To the blank margin of a Valentine, 
Bedropp'd with tears." 



ON THE GENIUS AND WRITINGS OF WORDSWORTH. 155 

With these tear-moving expressions of ill-fated love, we 
may contrast the following rich picture of the affection in 
its early bloom, from the tale of Vandracour and Julia, which 
will show how delightedly the poet might have lingered in 
the luxiiries of amatory song, had he not chosen rather to 
brood over the whole world of sentiment and passion : — 

"Arabian fiction never fill'd the world 
With half the wonders that were wrought for him. 
Earth breathed in one great presence of the spring; 
Life turn'd the meanest of her implements 
Before his eyes to price above all gold; 
The house she dwell in was a sainted shrine; 
Her chamber window did surpass in glory 
The portal of the dawn; all paradise 
Could, by the simple opening of a door, 
Let itself in upon iiim ; pathways, walks, 
Swarm'd with enchantment, till his spirit sank. 
Surcharged, within him, — overblest to move 
Beneath a sun that walks a weary world 
To its dull round of ordinary cares; 
A man too happy for mortality." 

Perhaps the highest instance of Wordsworth's imaginative 
faculty, exerted in a tale of human fortunes, is to be found 
in " The White Doe of Rylstone." He has here succeeded 
in two distinct efforts, the results of which ai'e yet in entire 
harmony. He has shown the gentle spirit of a high-bom 
maiden gathering strength and purity from sorrow, and 
finally after the destruction of her family, and amidst the 
ruin of her paternal domains, consecrated by suffering. He 
has also here, by the introduction of that lovely wonder, the 
favourite doe of his heroine, at once linked the period of his 
naiTative to that of its events, and softened down the sad- 
dest catastrophe and the most exquisite of mortal agonies. A 
gallant chieftain, one of the goodliest pOlars of the olden time, 
fells, with eight of his sons, in a hopeless contest for the reli- 
gion to which they were devoted — the ninth, who followed 
them unarmed, is slain while he strives to bear away, for 
their sake, the banner which he had abjured — the sole sur- 
viver, a helpless woman, is left to wander desolate about the 
silent halls and tangled glades, once witnesses of her joyous 
infancy — and yet all this variety of grief is rendered mild 
and soothing by the influences of the imagination of the poet. 



156 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

The doe which first with its quiet sympathy excited relieving 
tears in its forsaken mistress, which followed her a gentle com- 
panion through all her mortal wanderings, and which years 
after made Sabbath visits to her grave, is like the spirit of 
nature personified to heal, to bless, and to elevate. All who 
have read the poem aright, will feel prepared for that apo- 
theosis which the poet has reserved for this radiant being, 
and will recognise the imaginative truth of that bold figure, 
by which the decaying towers of Bolton are made to smile 
upon its form, and to attest its unearthly relations : — 

"There doth the g-cntle creature lie 

With these adversities unmoved; 
Cahn spectacle, by eartli and sky 

In tlieir beriig-nity approved! 
And aye, melhinks, this hoary pile, 

Subdued by outrage and decay. 
Looks down upon her with a smile, 

A gracious smile, that seems to say, 
'Thou ait not a Child of Time, 
But daughter of the eternal Prime I'" 

Although Wordsworth chiefly delights in these humanities 
of poetry, he has shown that he possesses feelings to ap- 
preciate and power to grasp the noblest of classic fictions. 
No one can read his Dion, his Loadamia, and the most ma- 
jestic of his sonnets, without perceiving that he has power to 
endow the stateliest shapes of old mythology with new life, 
and to diffuse about them a new glory. Hear him, for ex- 
ample, breakmg forth, with holy disdain of the worldly spirit 
of the time, into this sublime apostrophe: — 

" Great God ! I'd rather be 

A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn : 
So might I, standing on some pleasant lee. 

Have glimpses wiiich might malie me less forlorn; 
Have sight of Proteus coming from the sea. 

Or liear old Triton blow his wreathed horn !" 

But he has chosen rather to survey the majesties of Greece, 
with the eye of a philosopher as well as of a poet. He re- 
views them with emotions equally remote from pedantry 
and from intolerance— regarding not only the grace and the 
loveliness of their forms, but their symbolical meaning — 



ox THE GENIUS AND WRITINGS OF WORDSWORTH. 157 

tracing them to their elements in the human soul, and bring- 
ing before us the eldest wisdom which was embodied in their 
shapes, and speedily forgotten by their worshippers. Thus, 
among " the palpable array of sense," does he discover hints of 
immortd life — thus does he transport us back more than 
twenty centuries — and enable us to enter into the most 
mysterious and far-reaching hopes of a Grecian votaiy : — 

" A Spirit hung, 

Beautiful region ! o'er thy Towns and Farms, 

Statues, and Temples, and memorial Tombs; 

And emanations were perceived, and acts 

Of immortality, in Nature's course, 

Exemplified by mysteries, that were felt 

As bonds, on grave Philosopher imposed 

And armed Warrior; and in every grove, 

A gay or pensive tenderness prevaii'd 

When piety more uwful had relaxed. 

'Take, running River, take tlicse locks of mine,' 

Thus would the votary say, — 'this sever'd hair. 

My vow fulfilling, do I here present, 

Thankful for my beloved child's return. 

Thy banks, Cephisus, ho again hath trod. 

Thy murmurs heard; and drunk the crystal lymph 

With which thou dost refresh the thirsty lip. 

And moisten all day long these tlowery fields.' 

And doubtless, sometimes, when the hair was shed 

Upon the flowing stream, a thought arose 

Of life continuous. Being unimpair'd. 

That hath been, is, and where it was and is 

There shall be, — seen, and heard, and felt, and known. 

And recognised, — existence unexposed 

To the blind walk of mortal accident; 

From ditninution free, and weakening age. 

While man grows old, and dwindles, and decays; 

And countless generations of mankind 

Depart : and leave no vestige where they trodj' 

We must now bring this long article to a close — and yet 
how small a portion of our author's beauties have we even 
hinted ! We have passed over the clear majesty of the poem 
of " Hart leap well" — the lyrical grandeur of the Feast of 
Brougham Castle — the masculine energy and delicate grace 
of the Sonnets which with the exception perhaps of one or 
two of Warton and of Milton far exceed all others in our 
Jcinguage — " The Waggoner," that fine and hearty conces- 

14* 



158 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

sion of a water-drinker to the joys of wine and the light- 
hearted folly which it insph-es— and numbers of smaller 
poems and ballads, which to the superficial observer may 
seem only hke woodland springs, but in which he who 
ponders intently wiU discern the breakings forth of an under- 
current of thought and feeling which is silently flowing be- 
neath him. We trust, however, we have written or rather 
quoted enough to induce such of our readers as hitherto 
have despised the poet on the faith of base or ignorant 
criticism to read him for themselves, especially as by the 
recent appearance of the Excursion in octavo, and the 
aiTangement of the minor poems in four small volumes, the 
whole of his poetical works are placed within their reach. If 
he has little popularity with the multitude, he is rewarded by 
the intense veneration and love of the finest spirits of the age. 
Not only Coleridge, Lloyd, Southey, Wilson, and Lamb — 
with whom his name has been usually connected — but almost 
aU the li\ang poets have paid eloquent homage to his genius. 
He is loved by Montgomery, Cornwall, and Rogers — revered 
by the author of Waverley — ridiculed and pillaged by Lord 
Byi'on ! Jefh'ey, if he begins an article on Ms greatest work 
with the pithy sentence '■'■fhis will never do" glows ev"en 
while he criticizes, and before he closes, though he came like 
Balaam to curse, like him " blesses altogether." Innmnerable 
essays, seiTnons, speeches, poems — even of those who pro- 
fess to despise huu — are tinged by his fancj^ and adorned by 
his expressions. And there are no small number of young 
hearts, which have not only been emiched but renovated by 
his poetry — which he has expanded, purified, and exalted — 
and to which he has given the means of high communion 
with the good and the pure throughout the universe. These, 
equal at least in number to the original lovers of Shakspeare 
or of Milton, will transmit his fame to kindred spirits, and 
whether it shall receive or be denied the honour of fashion, 
it will ever be cherished by the purest of earthly ininds, and 
connected with the most majestic of nature's sceneiy. 

Too many of our Uving poets have seemed to take pride 
in building their fame on the sands. They have chosen for 
their subjects the diseases of the heart —the sad anomalies 
of humanity — the turbulent and guilty passions which are 
but for a season. Their renown, therefore, must necessarily 



ON THE GENIUS AND WRITINGS OF WORDSWORTH. 159 

decline as the species advances. Instead of tracing out the 
lineaments of the image of God indelibly impressed on the 
soul, they have painted the deformities which may obscure 
them for awhile but can never utterly destroy them. Vice, 
which is the accident of our nature, has been their theme 
instead of those affections which are its ground-work and 
essence. " Yet a little space, and that which men call evil 
is no more !" Yet a little space, and those wild emotions — 
those horrid deeds — those strange aberrations of the soul — 
on which some gifted bards have delighted to dwell, wUl 
fade away like the phantoms of a feverish dream. Then 
will poetry, like that of Wordsworth, which even now is the 
harbinger of a serener day, be felt and loved and held in 
undying honour. The genius of a poet who has chosen this 
liigh and pure career, too, will proceed in every stage of be- 
ing, seeing that " it is a thing immortal as himself," and that 
it was ever inspired by affections which cannot die. The 
poet even in brighter worlds will feel, with inconceivable de- 
light, the connexion between his earthly and celestial being 
— live along the golden lines of sentiment and thought back 
to the most delicious moments of his contemplations here — 
and rejoice in the recognition of those joys of which he had 
tastes and intimations on earth. Then shall he see the in- 
most soul of his poetry disclosed— grasp as assured realities 
the gorgeous visions of his infancy — feel " the burden of the 
mysteiy of all this unimaginable world," which were lighten- 
ed to him here dissolved away — see the prophetic worldngs 
of hi^ imagination realized — exult while " pain and anguish 
and the wormy grave," which here were to him " shapes of 
a dream," are utterly banished from the view — and listen to 
the full chorus of that universal harmony whose first notes 
he here delighted to awaken ! 



150 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 



REVIEW OF « NORTH'S LIFE OF LORD 
GUILFORD." 

[Rctrospcelive Review.] 

This old piece of legal biography, which has been lately 
republished, is one of the most delightful books in the world. 
Its charm does not consist in any marvellous incidents of 
. Lord GuOford's Ufe, or any pecviliar interest attacliing to his 
character, but in the unequalled naivete of the writer — in 
the singular felicity with which he has thrown himself into 
his subject — and in his vivid delineations of all the great 
lawyers of his time. He was a younger brother of the Lord 
Keeper, to whose affection he was largely indebted, and from 
whom he appears to have been scarcely ever divided. His 
work, in nice minuteness of detail, and living picture of mo- 
tive, almost equals the auto-biographies of Benevento Cellini, 
Rousseau, and Gibber. He seems to be almost as intensely 
conscious of all his brother's actions, and the movements of 
his mind, as they were of their own. All his ideas of hu- 
man greatness and excellence appear taken from the man 
whom he celebrates. There never was a more liberal or 
gentle prostration of the spirit He was evidently the most 
humane, the most kindly, and the most single-hearted, of 
flatterers. There is a beauty in his very cringing, beyond 
the independence of many. It is the most gentleman-like 
submission, the most graceful resignation of self, of which 
we have ever read. Hence, there is nothing of the vanity 
of authorship — no attempt to display his own powers — 
throughout the work. He never comes forward in the first 
person, except as a witness. Indeed, he usually speaks of 
himself as of another, as though he had half lost his personal 



north's life op lord GUILFORD, 161 

consciousness in the contemplation of his idol's virtues. The 
following passage, towards the conclusion, where he recounts 
the favours of Lord Guilford to a younger brother, and at 
last, in the fuUness of his heart, discloses, by a little quota- 
tion, that he is speaking of himself — this breaking from his 
usual modest narration into the only personal feeling he seems 
to have cherished — is beautifully characteristic of the spirit 
which he brought to his work. 

" But I ought to come nearer home, and take an account 
of his benevolences to his paternal relations. His youngest 
brother (the honourable Roger Nortli) was designed, by his 
father, for the civil law, as they call that professed at Doc- 
tors' Commons, upon a specious fancy to have a son of each 
faculty or employ used in England. But his lordship dis- 
suaded him, and advised rather to have him put to the com- 
mon law ; for the other profession provided but for a few, 
and those not wonderful well ; whereas, the common law 
was more certain, and, in that Avay, he himself might bring 
liim forwards, and assist him. And so it was determined. 
His lordship procured for him a petit chamber, which cost 
his father £60, and there he was settled with a very scanty 
allowance ; to which his lordship made a timely addition of 
his own money : more than all this, he took him almost con- 
stantly out with him to company and entertainments, and 
always paid his scot ; and, when he was attorney general, 
let him into partnership in one of the offices uader him ; and 
when his lordship was treasurer, and his brother called to the 
bar, a perquisite chamber, worth £150 fell; and that he gave 
to his brother for a practising chamber, and took in lieu only 
that which he had used for his studies. When his lordship 
was chief justice, he gave him the countenance of practising 
under him, at nisi prius; and all the while his lordship was 
a house-keeper, his brother and servant were of his family 
at all meals. When the Temple was burnt, he fitted up a 
little room and study in his chambers in Serjeant's Inn, for 
his brother to manage his small affairs of law in, and lodged 
him in his house till the Temple was buUt, and he might 
securely lodge there. And his lordship was pleased with a 
back door in his own study, by which he could go in and out 
to his brother, to discourse of incidents ; which way of Ufa 



162 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

delighted his lordship exceedingly. And, what was more 
extraordinary, he went with his lordship in his coach con- 
stantly, to, and from, the courts of nixi prius, at Guildhall 
and Westminster. And, after his lordship had the great seal, 
his brother's practice (being then made of the king's counsel, 
and coming within the bar) increased exceedingly, and, in 
about three years' time he acquu'ed the better part he after- 
wards was possessed of. At that time, his lordship took his 
brother into his family, and a coach and servants assigned 
him out of liis equipages ; and all at rack and manger, re- 
quiring only £200 a year ; which was a trifle, as the world 
went then. And it may truly be said, that this brother was 
a shadow to him, as if they had grown together. And, to 
show his lordship's tenderness, I add this instance of fact. 
Once he seemed more than ordinarily disposed to pensiveness, 
even to a degree of melancholy. His lordship never left 
pumping, tiU he found out the cause of it ; and that was a re- 
flection what should become of him, if he should lose this good 
brother, and be left alone to himself: the thought of wliich 
he could scarce bear ; for he had no opinion of his own 
strength, to work his way through the world with tolerable 
success. Upon this his lordship, to set his brother's mind 
at ease, sold him an annuity of £200 a year, at an easy 
rate, upon condition to re-purchase it, at the same rate, 
when he was worth £5000. And this was all done accord- 
ingly. 

" O et prsesidium et dulce decus meum." 

We will now conduct our readers through Lord Guilford's 
life — introducing as many of the nice peculiarities of his 
historian as our limits will allow — and wiU then give them 
one or two of the portraits with which the work is en- 
riched — and add a word on the changes which have taken 
place in the legal profession, since the time when the ori- 
ginals " held the noisy tenour of their way " through its gra- 
dations. 

The Hon. Francis North, afterwards Baron Guilford, was 
the third son of Dudley, Lord North, Baron of Kirtling, who 
deserved the filial duty of his children, by the veneration 
which he manifested towards his own father, beyond even 



north's life op lord GUILFORD. 163 

the strictness of those times ; for, though he was an old 
man before his father died, he never sat or was covered in 
his presence xinbidden. He sent his son, at an early age, to 
school, but was not very fortunate in his selection, for the 
master was a rigid presbyterian, and his wife a furious inde- 
pendent, who used " to instruct her babes in the gift of pray- 
ing by the spirit, making them kneel by a bed-side and 
pray ;' ' but as " this petit spark was too small for that pos- 
ture, he was set upon the bed to kneel with his face to the 
pillow." This absurd treatment seems to have given the 
child an early disgust for those who were esteemed the fa- 
natics, which never left him. He finished his scholastic edu- 
cation under a " cavalier master," with credit. After he left 
school, he became a fellow-commoner of St. John's College, 
Cambridge, where he improved greatly in solid learning, 
and acquired a knowledge of music, which he afterwards 
used as a frequent solace amidst the toils of his profession. 

He next became a member of the Middle Temple, and 
occupied " a moiety of a petit chamber, which his father 
bought for him." Here he " used constantly commons in 
the hall at noons and nights," studied closely, and derived 
much benefit from the practice of putting cases, which was 
followed in the old temple cloisters by the students, and for 
the convenience of which they were rebuilt by Sir Christo- 
pher Wren in their present form. He, also, diligently com- 
mon-placed the substance of his reading, having acquired a 
very small but legible hand — "for," as his biographer ob- 
sei"ves, " where contracting is the main business, it is not 
well to wTite, as the fashion then was, uncial or semi-uncial 
letters to look like pigs' ribs." In his studies, he was wont 
by turns to read the reports and institutes ; " as, after a full- 
ness of the reports in a morning, about noon, to take a repast 
in Stamford, Crompton, or the Lord Coke's Pleas of the 
Crown, and Jurisdiction of Courts, Man wood of the Forest 
Law, and Fitzherbert's Natm-a Brevium." He, also, "de- 
spatched the greatest part" of the year-books, beginning 
with the book, termed Henry the Seventh, from whence he 
regarded the common law derived " as from a copious foun- 
tain." While thus engaged, he did not altogether refuse 
recreation, but delighted in a small supper and a temperate 
glass with his friends in chambers, sometimes fancied " to go 



1 64 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

about town and see trade- work, which is a very diverting 
and instructive entertainment," and visited every thing ex- 
traordinary in town, " as engines, shows, lectures, and even 
so low as to hear Hugh Peters preach!" The only obstacle 
to his legal success was his excessive bashfldness, which so 
oppressed him, that when he dined or supped in the haD of 
the Middle Temple, he would not walk in alone, but " used 
to stand dogging at the skreen till other company came, 
behind whom he might enter." 

At the bar, he derived great advantage from the favour of 
Sir Jeofry Palmer, the attorney-general, who gave him many 
opportunities of showing his dexterity and knowledge of law, 
by procuring him to perform some of his own public duties, 
when he was himself disabled by sickness. Through the 
good offices of this zealous friend, Mr. North was appointed 
to argue for the king in the House of Lords, on the writ of 
error in the famous case of the King v. Hollis and others, 
which was brought by order of the House of Commons to 
reverse a judgment obtained in the time of Charles the First, 
against five of their members, who had been prosecuted for 
holding down the speaker in his chair, and other riotous pro- 
ceedings. In consequence of the ability which he displayed 
on this occasion, though the commons succeeded, he was, 
on the recommendation of the Duke of York, appointed one 
of his majesty's counsel. Thus, having precedence, the fa- 
vour of the court, great assiduity, and knowledge in law, he 
soon considerably extended his practice. To this, indeed, 
his great wariness and prudence, trenching on the bounda- 
ries of meanness, did not contribute a little. " He was ex- 
ceedingly careful to keep fair with the cocks of the circuit," 
especially Serjeant Earl, who was a miser, and with whom 
he was contented to travel, when no other would starve with 
him on his journies. If he discovered a point which his 
leader had omitted, he would not excite dislike by moving it 
himself^ but suggest it to his senior, and thus conciliate his 
regard. He was, also, to use the words of his biographer, 
" a wonderful artist in nicking a judge's tendency to serve 
his turn, and yet never failed to pay the greatest regard and 
deference to his opinion." He never contested a point with 
a judge when he despaired to convince him, but resigned it, 
even when confident in its goodness, that he might not 



NORTH S LIFE OF LORD GUILFORD. lt)5 

weaken his credit for the future. On the other hand, when 
the judge was wrongly on his side, and he knew it, he did 
not fail to echo " aye, my lord,''' to the great annoyance of 
his rivals. Thus gifted by knowledge and pliancy, he soon 
" from a humble beginner rejoicing at a cause that came to 
him, became cock of the circuit; and every one that had a 
trial rejoiced to have him on his side." One piece of artifice 
which he used on behalf of a relative is so curious, that we 
will insert it in the words of our author. 

" His lordship had a relation, one Mr. Whitmore, of Bahns, 
near London, an humoursome old gentleman, but very famous 
for the mere eating and drinking part of house-keeping. He 
was owner of Waterbeach, near Cambridge, and took a 
fancy that his estate ought not to pay tithes, and ordered his 
tenents expressly to pay none, with promise to defend them. 
The parson had no more to do but to go to law, and by ad- 
vice brought an action of debt, for treble damages upon the 
statute against subtraction of tithes. The tenants got the 
whole demand to be put in one action ; and that stood for 
trial at the assizes. Then he consults his cousin North, and 
retains him to defend this cause ; but shows him no manner 
of title to a discharge. So he could but tell him he would 
be routed, and pay treble value of the tithes, and that he 
must make an end. This signified nothing to one that was 
abandoned to his own testy humour. The cause came on, 
and his lordship's utmost endeavour was to fetch him off 
with the single value and costs ; and that point he managed 
very artificially : for first, he considered that Archer was the 
judge, and it was alv/ays agreeable to him to stave oflT a long 
cause. After the cause was opened, his lordship for the de- 
fendant, stepped forwards, and told the judge that ' this would 
be a long and intricate cause, being a title to a discharge of 
tithes, which would require the reading a long series of re- 
cords and ancient writings. That his client was no quaker, 
to deny payments of tithes were due, in which case the 
treble value was by the law intended as a sort of penalty. 
But this was to be a trial of a title, which his client was 
advised he had to a discharge : therefore he moved, that the 
single value might be settled ; and if the cause went for the 
plaintiff, he should have that and his costs (which costs, it 
15 



166 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

seems, did not go if the treble value was recovered,) and 
then they would proceed to their title.' The other side 
mutinied against this imposition of Mr. North, but the judge 
was for him, and they must be satisfied. Then did he open 
a long history of matters upon record, of bulls, monasteries, 
orders, greater and lesser houses, siurrenders, patents, and a 
great deal more, very proper, if it had been true, while the 
counsel on the other side stared at him ; and, having done, 
they bid him go to his evidence. He leaned back, as speaking 
to the attorney, and then, My lord, said he, we are very 
unhappy in this cause. The attorney tells me, they forgot 
to examine their copies with the originals at the Tower ; 
and (so folding up his brief) My lord, said he, they must 
have the verdict, and we must come better prepared another 
time. So, notwithstanding all the mutiny the other side 
could make, the judge held them to it, and they were choused 
of the treble value. This was no iniquity, because it was 
not to defraud the duty, but to shift off the penalty. But the 
old gentleman told his cousin North, he had given away his 
cause. His lordship thought he had done him service enough ; 
and could but just, (with the help of the before said reason) 
satisfy himself that he had not done ill." 

There is nothing very worthy of remark in the private 
life of Mr. North, before the beginning of his speculations for 
a settlement by maiTiage. These are exceedingly curious, 
not for their romance, but the want of it. In the good old 
times, when our advocate flourished, the language of senti- 
ment was not in fashion. Some doubtless there were, per- 
haps not fewer than in these poetical days, in whose souls 
Love held its " liigh and hearted seat" — whose nice-attuned 
spirits trembled with every change of the intensest, yet most 
delicate of affections — whose whole existence was one fer- 
vent hope and one unbroken sigh. Since then, the breath- 
ings of their deep emotion — the words and phrases which 
imperfectly indicated that which was passing within them, as 
light and airy bubbles rise up from the lowest spring to the 
surface of tranquil waters — have become the current lan- 
guage of every transitory passion, and serve to garnish out 
every prudent match as a necessary part of the wedding 
finery. Things were not thus confounded by our heartier 



north's life of lord GUILFORD. 167 

ancestors. Language was some indication of the difference 
of minds, as dress was of ranks. Tlie ciioice spirits of the 
time had their prerogative of words and figures, as the 
ancient famUies had of their coats of arms. The greater 
part of mankind, who never feel love in its depth or its 
purity, were contented to marry and be given in marriage 
without the affectation of its language. Men avowedly 
looked for good portions, and women for suitable jointures — 
they made the contract for mutual support and domestic 
comfort in good faith, and did not often break it. They had 
their reward. They indulged no fairy dreams of happiness 
too etherial for earth, which, when dissipated, would render 
dreary the level path of existence. Of their open, plain- 
hearted course of entering into the matrimonial state, and of 
speaking about it, the Lord Keeper and his biographer are 
edifying examples. His lordship, as his fortune improved, 
felt the necessiiy of domestic comfort, and wisely thought his 
hours of leisure would be spent most happily in a family, 
" which is never well settled without a mistress." " He 
fancied," says his eulogist, " he might pi'etend to as good a 
fortune in a match as many others had found, who had less 
reason to expect it ; but, without some advantage that way, 
he was not disposed to engage himself" His first attempt 
in this laudable pursuit was to obtain the daughter of an old 
usurer, which we will give in our author's words : 

" There came to him a recommendation of a lady, who 
was an only daughter of an old usurer of Gray's-imi, sup- 
posed to be a good fortune in present, for her father was 
rich ; but, after his death, to become worth nobody could 
tell what. His lordship got a sight of the lady, and did not 
dislike her ; thereupon he made the old man a visit, and a 
proposal of himself to marry his daughter. There appeared 
no symptoms of discouragement ; but only the old gentleman 
asked him what estate his father intended to settle upon him 
for present maintenance, jointure, and provision for children. 
This was an inauspicious question ; for it was plain that the 
family had not estate enough for a lordship, and none would 
be to spare for him. Therefore he said to his worship only. 
That rvhen he would he pleased to declare ivhat portion he 
intended to give his daughter, he would write to his father. 



168 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

and make him acquainted with his answer. And so they 
parted, and his lordship was glad of his escape, and resolved 
to give that affair a final discharge, and never to come near 
the terrible old fellow any more. His lordship had, at that 
time, a stout heart, and could not digest the being so slighted ; 
as if, in his present state, a profitable profession, and future 
hopes, were of no account. If he had had a real estate to 
settle, he should not have stooped so low as to match with 
his daughter : and thenceforward despised his alliance." 

His next enterprise was directed to the "flourishing 
widow" of Mr. Edward Palmer, who had been his most 
intimate friend. Her family favoured his addresses — the 
lady did not refuse him — but flirted, coquetted, and worried 
him, until he was heartily tired of being " held in a course of 
bo-peep play by a crafty widow." Her friends still urged 
him to persevere, which he did to please them rather than 
himself, until she relieved him by marrying another of her 
suitors. His third exploit is thus amusingly related. 

" Another proposition came to his lordship, by a city broker, 
from Sir John Lawrence, who had many daughters, and 
those reputed beauties ; and the fortune was to be £6000. 
His lordship went and dined with the aldennan, and Uked 
the lady, who (as the way is) was dressed out for a muster. 
And coming to treat, the portion shrank to £5000, and, upon 
that, his lordship parted, and was not gone far before Mr. 
Broker (following) came to him and said. Sir John would give 
£500 more, at the birth of the first chUd ; but that would 
not do, for his lordship hated such screwing. Not long after 
this despatch, his lordship was made the king's solicitor ge- 
neral, and then the broker came again, with news that Sir 
John would give £10,000. No ; his lordship said, after such 
usage he would not proceed, if he might have £20,000. 
So ended that affair ; and his lordship's mind was once more 
settled in tranquillity." 

At last, after these repeated disappointments, his mother 
" laid her eyes " on the Lady Frances Pope, one of three 
co-heiresses, as a wife for her son — and with his consent 
made overtures on his behalf After some little difficulties 



north's life of lord GUILFORD. t69 

respecting his lordship's fortune, this match was happily con- 
cluded, and is celebrated by his biographer as " made in hea- 
ven." The lady, however, died of a consumption, in the 
prime of her days. On this occasion, our author rejoices 
that " his lordship's good stars " forced him to London about 
a fortnight before her death, because nearness to persons 
dying of consumptions is perilous — and " when she must 
expire, and probably in his arms, he might have re- 
ceived great damage in his health." Her husband erected 
a monument to her memory, on which a tremendous Latin 
epitaph was engraven, commemorating her father, husband, 
children, and virtues. Our author here expresses his opi- 
nion, that the eulogistic part should be left out, " because it 
is in the power of every cobbler to do the like ;" but that 
the account of families cannot be too far extended, because 
they may be useful as evidence of pedigree. This is a cu- 
rious self-betrayal, by a man of rank and family. The utility 
of monumental inscriptions, detaUing the dignities of ancestry, 
is, indeed, urged — but it is easy to perceive the antithesis 
completed in the writer's mind — between all the virtues 
which a cobbler might share, and the immunities of which 
the high-born alone are partakers. 

Mean while, his lordship proceeded to honour and fortune. 
He was made Solicitor General, became a candidate for the 
borough of Lymi Regis ; and, on a visit, with his accustomed 
prudence, " regaled the coiporation with a very handsome 
treat, Avhich cost him about one hundred pounds." He 
could not, however, be present at the election, but sent our 
author, and Mr. Matthew Johnson, " to ride for him," with 
proper directions to economize their pecuniary resources. 
They did so ; — " took but one house, and there allowed scope 
for all taps'to run ;" and as there was no opposition, all passed 
well, and " the plenipos returned with their purchase, the re- 
turn of the election, back to London." His lordship, how- 
ever, lost his seat by the vote of the House — despatched 
" his plenipos once more to regain it, which they did, 
though with more difficulty than they first procured it ; for 
Sir Simon Taylor, a wealthy merchant of wine, in that town, 
stood, and had procured a butt of sherry, which butt of 
sherry was a potent adversary." Soon after, his lordship 
was made Attorney General, and some doubts arose as to 

15* 



17^ talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

his right to sit in parliament ; which, however, he was able to 
remove. 

Li due time, Mr. North, wearied with the perpetual la- 
bours of extensive practice, not only in the courts of law but 
of equity, longed for, and obtained, the elevated repose of the 
cushion of the Court of Common Pleas. Here he sedu- 
lously endeavoured to resist the encroachments of the King's 
Bench, and showed himself sufficiently versed in the arts by 
which each of the courts attempted to over-reach the other, 
and which would have done credit to the sagacity of a Soli- 
citor at the Old Bailey. His biographer relates various in- 
stances of his skill in detecting falsehood, which do not quite 
entitle him to be regarded as a second Solomon — of his 
management of counsel, which we have seen excelled in no 
distant period— and of his repartees, which are the worst 
ever gravely told as good things by a devoted admirer. The 
story of " the dumb day," is, however, worth transcribing, 
especially as our author, though he speaks of himself as usual, 
in the third person, was the party on whose behalf the au- 
thority of the Cliief Justice was exerted.. 

" It hath been the usage of the King's Bench, at the side bar 
below in the hall, and of the Common Pleas, in the chamber 
within the treasury, to hear attorneys, and young counsel, 
that came to move them about matters of form and practice. 
His lordship had a younger brother (Hon. Roger North) who 
was of the profession of the law. He was newly called to 
the bar, and had little to do in the King's Bench ; but the 
attorneys of the Common Pleas often retained him to move 
for them in the treasury, such matters as were proper there, 
and what they might have moved themselves. But how- 
ever agreeable this kind of practice was to a novitiate, it was 
not worthy the observation it had ; for once or twice a week 
was the utmost calculate of these motions. But the sergeants- 
thought that method was, or might become, prejudicial to. 
them, who had a monopoly of the bar, and would have no 
water go by their mill, and supposed it was high time to put 
a stop to such beginnings, for fear it might grow worse. But 
the doubt was, how they should signify their resentment, so 
as to be effectually remedial. At length they agreed, for 
one day, to make no motions at all ; and opportunity would 



north's life of lord GUILFORD, 171 

fall for showing the reason how the court came to have no 
business. When the court (on this dumb day, as it was 
called) was sat, the chief justice gave the usual signal to the 
eldest sergeant to move. He bowed, and had nothing to 
move : so the next, and the next, from end to end of the bar. 
The chief, seeing this, said, brothers, I think we must rise ; 
here is no business. Then an attorney steps forward, and 
called to a sergeant to make his motion; and, after that, 
turned to the court and said, that he had given the sergeant 
his fee, and instructions over night, to move for him, and 
desired he might do it. But profound silence still. The chief 
looked about, and asked, Ifhat was the matter P An at- 
torney, that stood by, very modestly said, that he feared the 
sergeants took it ill that motions were made in the Trea- 
sury. Then the chief scented the whole matter ; and, brothers, 
said he, / think a very great affront is offered to us, which 
we ought for the dignity of the court, to resent. But 
that we may do nothing too suddenly, but take considera- 
tion at full leisure, and maturely, let us now rise, and to- 
morrow morning give order as becomes us. And do yoic 
attorneys come all here to-morrow, and care shall be taken 
for your despatch, and, rather than fail, we will hear you, 
or your clients, or the barristers at law, or any person that 
thinks fit to appear in business, that the law may have its 
course ; and so the court rose. This was like thimder to 
the sergeants, and they fell to quarrelling, one with another, 
about being the cause of this great evil they had brought 
upon themselves : for none of them imagined it would have 
had such a turn as this was, that shaked what was the pal- 
ladium of the coif, the sole practice there. In the afternoon, 
they attended the chief, and the other judges of the court, 
and, in great humility, owned their fault, and begged pardon, 
and that no farther notice might be taken of it; and they 
would be careful not to give the like offence for the future. 
The chief told them, that the affront was in public, and in 
the face of the court, and they must make their recognitions 
there next morning, and in such a manner as the great- 
ness of their offence demanded ; and then they should hear 
what the court would say to them. Accordingly they did ; 
and the chief first, and, then, the rest, in order, gave them a 
formal chiding with acrimony enough ; all which, with de- 



172 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

jected countenances, they were bound to hear. When this 
discipline was over, the chief pointed to one to move ; which 
he did, (as they said,) more lilce one crying than speaking : 
and so ended the comedy, as it was acted in Westminster- 
hall, called the dumb day." 

His lordship used his travels on the cu'cuit as the means 
of securing an interest in the country gentlemen ; and with 
so much success, that Dr. Mew, Bishop of Winchester, who 
was called Patels, from a black plaster which he wore to 
cover a wound received in the civil war, termed hini " deli- 
ciae occidentis," the darling of the West ; and the western 
members of parliament " did so firmly ensconce him that his 
enemies could never get a clever stroke at him." Once, 
indeed, he was taken in by a busy fanatic, who importuned 
the judges to sup with him, at his house near Exeter ; and, 
having them fairly in his power, inflicted on them a long ex- 
temporaneous prayer, " after the presbyterian way," which 
gave occasion to much merriment at the expense of their 
loi"dships, who were said to have been at a conventicle, and 
in danger of being presented with all their retinue for that 
offence by the grand juiy. He also narrowly escaped being 
made the dupe or tool of the infamous Bedloe, who sent for 
him under pretence of making a confession. Excepting in 
so far as an excessive timidity influenced him, he appears to 
have acted in his high office with exemplary justice and wis- 
dom. He was, indeed, a most faint-hearted judge, which his 
biographer, as in duty bound, discloses to his honour. He 
dreaded the trying of a witch, because he disbelieved the 
crime ; and yet feared to offend the superstitious vulgar. On 
this nice subject, our author observes — 

" It is seldom that a poor old wretch is brought to trial upon 
that account, but there is, at the heels of her, a popular rage 
that does little less than demand her to be put to death : and, 
if a judge is so clear and open as to declare against that im- 
pious vulgar opinion, that the devil himself has power to 
torment and kiU innocent children, or that he is pleased to 
divert himself with the good people's cheese, butter, pigs, and 
geese, and the like errors of the ignorant and foolish rabble ; 
the countrymen (the triers) cry this judge hath no religion, 



north's life of lord GUILFORD. 173 

for he doth not believe witches ; and so, to show they have 
some, hang the poor wretches. All which tendency to mis- 
take, requires a very prudent and moderate carriage in a 
judge, whereby to convince, rather by detecting of the fraud, 
than hy denying authoritatively such power to be given to 
old women." 

His lordship did, indeed, whenever he could, lay open 
the unposture, and procure the acquittal of witches. But 
when Mr. Justice Raymond and he went the circuit toge- 
ther, and his co-judge condemned two women to death for 
tlie crime, he appears to have contented himself, " with 
concern, that his brother Raymond's passive behaviour 
should let them die," without iiimself making any effort to 
save them. His opinions respecting libels were surprisingly 
liberal for a judge of the cavalier party, and may serve to 
put shame to the courtly lawyers of more enlightened days. 

'• As to the business of lies and libels, which, in those 
days, were an intolerable vexation to the court, especially 
finding that the community of gentle and simple strangely 
ran in with them ; it was moved that there should be more 
messengers of the press, and spies, who should discover se- 
cret printing-houses, (which, then, were against law,) and 
take up the hawkers that sold libels, and all other persons 
that dispersed them, and inflict severe punishments on all that 
were found guilty. But his lordship was of a very different 
opinion, and said that this prosecution would make them 
but the more inquired after ; and it was impossible to hinder 
the promulgation of libels ; for the greediness of every one 
to get them, and the high price, would make men, of despe- 
rate fortunes, venture any thing : and, in such cases, pu- 
nishments never regulate the abuse ; but it must be done, if 
at all, by methods undermining the encouragement : yet, if 
any were caught, he thought it was fit to make severe ex- 
amples of them. But an extraordinary inquisition to be set 
up, and make so much noise, and the punishment falling, as 
was most likely, not on the authors and abettors, but some 
poor wretches that sought to get a penny by selling them, 
would, as he thought, rather incense than abate the abuse. 
His notion was, that his majesty should order nothing ex- 



174 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

traordinary, to make people imagine he was touched to the 
quick; but to set up counter writers that as every libel 
came out, should take it to task, and answer it. And, so, 
all the diurnal lies of the town also would be met with; /or, 
said he, either we are in the wrong, or in the right ; if 
the former, we must do as usurped powers, use force, and 
crush all our enemies right or wrong. But there is no 
tieed of that, for we are in the right; for who will pre- 
tend not to 0W71 his majesty'' s authority according to law? 
And nothing is done, by his majesty and his ministers, 
but what the law ivill warrant, and what should we be 
afraid off Let them lie and accuse till they are weary, 
U'hile we declare at the same time, as may be done with 
demonstration, that all they say is false and unjust ; and 
the better sort of the people, whom truth sways, when laid 
before them, will be with us. This counsel was followed ; 
and some clever writers were employed, such as were called 
the Observator and Heraclitus, for a constancy, and others, 
with them, occasionally ; and then they soon wrote the libel- 
lers out of the pit, and, during that king's life, the trade of 
libels, which, before, had been in great request, fell to no- 
thing." 

Mr. North, notwithstanding the liberality of some of his 
opinions, was made a privy counsellor, and some time after 
Lord Keeper of the Great Seal. He opposed Jeffries, the 
celebrated Lord Cliief Justice of the Kmg's Bench, with 
mildness and caution, and secured and used wisely the 
esteem of his sovereign. He appears to have forseen, that 
the consequence of the violent and arbitrary measures, which 
he was unable to prevent, would, if continued, work the 
downfall of the Stuart family. His private life was tem- 
perate and regular, untainted with the vices of the times. 
His brother-in-law, actually fearing his virtue might be 
visited as a libel on the court, seriously advised him to keep 
a mistress in his own defence ; " for he understood, from very 
gi'eat men, that he was ill looked upon for want of doing so ; 
because he seemed continually to reprehend them ;" which 
notable ad-vice was concluded by an offer, " that, if his lord- 
ship pleased, he would help him to one." His lordship's re- 
gard to vii'tue, as well as his usual caution, which told him, 



north's life of lord GUILFORD, 175 

"there was no spy like a female," made him regard this 
proffer with a scorn, which utterly puzzled his adviser. He 
was, however, tremulously alive to ridicule. Aware of this 
infirmity, Jeffries and the Earl of Sunderland took advantage 
of a harmless visit he made to see a rhinoceros, to circulate 
a report, that he had ridden on the animal. This threw him 
into a state of rage and vexation truly surprising ; he turned 
on his questioners with unexampled fury, was seriously angry 
with Sir Dudley North for not contradicting it with sufficient 
gravity, and sent for him that he might add his testimony to 
his own solemn denial. His biographer, who actually per- 
forms the duty of confidante, as described in The Critic, to 
laugh, weep, or go mad with the principal, is also in a tower- 
ing passion at the charge. He calls it, " an impudent buffoon 
lie, which Satan himself would not have owned for his legiti- 
mate issue ;" and is provoked beyond measui'e, that " the 
noble Earl, with Jeffries, and others of that crew, made 
merry, and never blushed at the lie of their own making ; 
but valued themselves upon it, as a veiy good jest." He 
was afflicted by no other " gi'eat calumny," notwithstanding 
the watchfulness of his foes. One of his last public acts was, 
to stop the bloody proceedings of Jeffries in the West, which 
he did by his influence with the King. He did not long sur- 
vive the profligate prince, whom he sometimes was able to 
guide and to soften. He walked in the Coronation of James 
the Second, when imperfectly recovered from a fever ; and, 
after a gradual decline of some months, expired at his house 
at Wroxton, really hurried to the grave by the political broils 
and vexations attendant on the Great Seal. " That pestife- 
rous lump of metal," as our author terms it, was given to 
Jeffries, whom it did not save from an end more disastrous 
and fearfiil. 

The work before us, as we have already intimated, is ren- 
dered more interesting by the admirable characters which it 
contains of the old lawyers. These are all drawn, not only 
with great and most felicitous distinctness, but are touched 
in a mild, gentlemanly, and humane spirit, which it is refresh- 
ing to recognise in these days of acrimony and slander. 
Even those who were most opposed in interest and in preju- 
dice to the author, receive ample justice fi-om his hands. 
Hale, whose dislike to the court rendered him obnoxious to 



176 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

the author, or which is the same thing to his brother, is 
drawn at full length in all his austere majesty. Even Ser- 
jeant Maynard, the acknowledged " anti-restoration lawyer," 
■»7hose praise was in all the conventicles, and who was a 
hard rival of "his lordship," receives due acknowledgment 
of his learning, and that he was, to his last breath, true as 
steel to the principles of the times when he began his career. 
Sir William Scraggs, the fierce voluptuary and outrageous 
politician, is softened to us by the single engaging touch, 
that " in his house every day was a holiday." And Jeffries 
himself, as exhibited here, seems to have had something of 
real human warmth within him, which redeems him from 
utter hatred. The following is a summary of his character. 

"His friendship and conversation lay much among the 
good fellows and humourists; and his delights were, ac- 
cordingly, drmking, laughing, singing, kissing, and all 
the extravagancies of the bottle. He had a set of banterers, 
for the most part, near him ; as, in old time, great men kept 
fools to make them merry. And these fellows, abusing one 
another and their betters, were a regale to him. And no 
friendship or dearness could be so great, in private, which he 
would not use ill, and to an extravagant degree, in public- 
No one, that had any expectations from him, was safe from 
his public contempt and derision, which some of his minions, 
at the bar, bitterly felt. Those above, or that could hurt or 
benefit him, and none else, might depend on fair quarters at 
his hands. Wlien he was in temper, and matters indif- 
ferent came before him, he became his seat of justice better 
than any other I ever saw in his place. He took a pleasure 
in mortifying fraudulent attorneys, and would deal forth his 
severities with a sort of majesty. He had extraordinary 
natural abilities, but Mttle acquired, beyond what practice in 
affairs had supplied. He talked fluently, and with spirit ; and 
his weakness was that he could not reprehend without scold- 
ing; and in such Billingsgate language, as should not come 
out of the mouth of any man. He called it giving a lick 
with the rough side of his tongue. It was ordinary to hear 
him say, Go, you are a filthy, lousy, nitty rascal; with 
much more of like elegance. Scarce a day passed that he 
did not ehide some one, or other, of the bar, when he sat in 



north's life op lord GUILFORD. 177 

the Chanceiy ; and it was commonly a lecture of a quarter 
of an hour long. And they used to say, This is your^s ; 
fiiy turn will be to-morrow. He seemed to lay nothing of 
his business to heart, nor care what he did, or left undoneti; 
and spent, in the Chancery court, what time he thought fit 
to spare. Many times, on days of causes at his house, the 
company have waited five hours in a morning, and, after 
eleven, he hath come out inflamed, and staring like one dis- 
tracted. And that visage he put on when he animadverted 
on such as he took offence at, which made him a terror to 
real offenders; whom also he terrified with his face and 
voice, as if the thunder of the day of judgment broke over 
their heads : and nothing ever made men tremble like his 
vocal inflictions. He loved to insult, and was bold without 
check ; but that only when his place was uppermost. To 
give an instance. A city attorney was petitioned against for 
some abuse ; and affidavit was made that when he was told, 
of my lord chancellor. My lord chancellor, said he, / made 
him ; meaning his being a means to bring him early into 
city business. When this affidavit was read, fVell, said the 
lord chancellor, then I will lay my maker by the heels. 
And, with that conceit, one of his best old friends went to 
jail. One of these intemperances was fatal to him. There 
was a scrivener of Wapping brought to hearing for relief 
against a bummery bond ; the contingency of losing all be- 
ing showed, the bUl was going to be dismissed. But one of 
the plaintiffs counsel said tliat he was a strange fellow, and 
sometimes went to church, sonietimes to conventicles : and 
none co'old tell what to make of him ; and it ivas thought 
he was a trimmer. At that the chancellor fired; and, ^ 
trimmer .' said he ; / have heard much of that monster, 
but never saw one. Come forth, Mr. Trimmer, turn you 
round, and let us see your shape : and, at that rate, talked 
so long that the poor fellow was ready to drop under him ; 
but, at last, the bDl was dismissed with costs, and he went 
his way. In the haL, one of his friends asked him how he 
came off? Came off, said he, / am escaped from the ter- 
rors of that meal's face, which I would scarce undergo 
again to save my life ; I shall certainly have the frightful 
impression of it as long as I live. Afterwards, when the 
Prince of Orange came, and all was in conftision, this lord 
16 



178 talpourd's miscellaneous writings. 

chancellor, being very obnoxious, disguised himself in order 
to go beyond sea. He was in a seaman's garb, and drink- 
ing a pot in a cellar. This scrivener came into the cellar 
after some of his clients ; and his eye caught that face, which 
made him start; and the chancellor seeing himself eyed, 
feigned a cough, and turned to the wall with his pot in his 
hand. But Mr. Trimmer went out, and gave notice that 
he was there; whereupon the mob flowed in, and he was in 
extreme hazard of his life ; but the lord mayor saved him, 
and lost himself. For the chancellor being hurried with 
such crowd and noise before him, and appearing so dismally, 
not only disguised, but disordered ; and there having been 
an amity between them, as also a veneration on the lord 
mayor's part, he had not spirits to sustain the shock, but fell 
down in a swoon ; and, in not many hours after, died. But 
this Lord Jeffries came to the seal without any concern at 
the weight of duty incumbent upon him ; for, at the first, 
being merry over a bottle with some of his old friends, one 
of them told him that he would find the business heavy. No, 
said he, /'// make it lis^hf. But, to conclude with a strange 
inconsistency, he would drink and be meny, kiss and slaver, 
with these bon companions over night, as the way of such 
is, and, the next day fall upon them, ranting and scolding 
with a virulence unsufferable." 

But the richest portion of these volumes is the character 
of the Lord Chief Justice Saunders, the author of the Reports 
v/hich Mr. Serjeant Williams has rendered popular by clus- 
tering about them the products of his learned industry. He 
has a better immortality in the Memoir. What a picture is 
exhibited of the stoutest industry, joined with the most luxu- 
rious spirit of enjoyment — of the most intense acquaintance 
with nice technicalities and the most boimteous humoiu* — of 
more distressing infirmities and scarcely less wit than those 
of Falstaff" ! What a singular being is here — what a labori- 
ous, acute, happy, and affectionate spirit in a loathsome 
frame ! — But, we forget ; — we are indulging ourselves, when 
we ought to gratify our readers. 

" The Lord Chief Justice Saunders succeeded in the room 
of Pemberton, His character, and his beginning, were 



north's life or lord guilford. 179 

equally strange. He was at first no better than a poor beg- 
gar boy, if not a parish foundling, without known parents 
or relations. He had found a way to live by obsequious- 
ness (in Clement's-Inn, as I remember) and courting the 
attorney's clerks for scraps. The extraordmary observance 
and diligence of the boy made the society willing to do him 
good. He appeared very ambitious to learn to write ; and 
one of the attorney's got a board knocked up at a window on 
the top of a staircase ; and that was his desk, where he sat 
and wrote after copies of court and other hands the clerks 
gave him. He made himself so expert a writer that he took 
in business, and eax'ned some pence by hackney writing. 
And thus, by degrees, he pushed his faculties, and fell to 
forms, and, by books that were lent him, became an exqui- 
site entering clerk ; and by the same course of improvement 
of himself, an able counsel, first in special pleading, then, at 
large. And, after he was called to the bar, had practice, in 
the King's Bench court, equal with any there. As to his 
person, he was very corpulent and beastly ; a mere lump of 
morbid flesh. He used to say, by his troggs, (such a 
humorous way of talking he affected) 720ne coidd say he 
wanted issue of his body, for he had nine in his back. He 
was a fetid mass that offended his neighbours at the bar in 
the sharpest degree. Those, whose ill fortune it was to 
stand near him, were confessors, and, in summer-time, almost 
martyrs. This hateful decay of his carcass came upon him 
by continued sottishness ; for, to say nothing of brandy, he 
was seldom without a pot of ale at his nose, or near him. 
That exercise was all he used ; the rest of his life was sitting 
at his desk, or piping at home ; and that home was a tailor's 
house in Butcher-Row, called his lodging, and the man's wife 
was Ills nurse, or worse; but by virtue of his money, of 
which he made little account, though he got a great deal, 
he soon became master of the family ; and, being no change- 
ling, he never removed, but was true to his firiends, and 
they to him, to the last hour of his life. 

So much for his person and education. As for his parts, 
none had them more lively than he. Wit and repartee, in 
an affected rusticity, was natural to him. He was ever 
ready, and never at a loss ; and none came so near as he to 
be a niatch for Sei-jeant Maynard. His great dexterity was in 



180 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

the art of special pleading, and he would lay snares that 
■ often caught his superiors, who were not aware of his traps. 
And he was so fond of success for his clients that, rather 
than faU, he would set the court hard with a trick ; for which 
he met sometimes with a reprimand, which he would wittUy 
ward oflf, so that no one was much offended with him. But 
Hales could not bear his irregularity of life ; and for that, 
and suspicion of his tricks, used to bear hard upon him in . 
the court. But no ill usage from the bench was too hard for 
his hold of business, being such as scarce any could do but 
himself With all this, he had a goodness of nature and dis- 
position in so great a degree that he may be deservedly 
styled a philanthrope He was a very Silenus to the boys, 
as, in this place, I may term the students of the law, to make 
them merry whenever they had a mind to it. He had no- 
thing of rigid or austere in him. If any, near him at the bar, 
grumbled at his stench, he ever converted the complaint 
into content and laughing with the abundance of his wit. As 
to his ordinary dealing, he was as honest as the driven snow 
was white ; and why not, having no regard for money, nor 
desire to be rich ! And, for good nature and condescen- 
sion, there was not his feUow. I have seen hmi, for hours 
and half hours together, before the court sat, stand at the 
bar, with an audience of students over against him, putting 
of cases, and debating so as suited their capacities, and en- 
couraging their industry. And so in the Temple, he seldom 
moved without a parcel of youths hanging about him, and 
he merry and jesting with them. 

It wiU be readily conceived that this man was never cut 
out to be a presbyter, or any thing that is severe and crab- 
bed. In no time did he lean to faction, but did his business 
without offence to any. He put off officious talk of govern- 
ment or politics, with jests, and so made his wit a catholicon, 
or shield, to cover all his weak places and infirmities. When 
the court fell into a steady course of using the law against 
all kinds of offenders, this man was taken into the king's 
business ; and had the part of drawing and perusal of almost 
all indictments and informations that were then to be prose- 
cuted, with the pleadings thereon if any were special ; and 
he had the settling of the large pleadings it the quo warranto 
against London. His lordsliip had no sort of conversation 



north's life of lord GUILFORD. 181 

with him, but in the way of business, and at the bar ; but 
once after he was in the king's busmess, he dined with his 
lordship, and no more. And there he showed another quali- 
fication he had acquired, and that was to play jigs upon a 
harpsichord ; having taught himself with the opportunity of 
an old virginal of his landlady's ; but in such a manner, not for 
defect but figure, as to see him were a jest. The king, observing 
him to be of a free disposition, loyal, fiiendly, and without 
greediness or guUe, thought of him to te the chief justice of 
the King's Bench at that nice time. And the ministry could not 
but approve of it. So great a weight was then at stake, as 
could not be trusted to men of doubtful principles, or such 
as any thing might tempt to desert them. While he sat in 
the Court of King's Bench, he gave the rule to the general 
satisfaction of the lawyers. But his course of life was so 
different from what it had been, his business incessant, and, 
withal, crabbed ; and his diet and exercise changed, that the 
constitution of his body, or head rather, could not sustain it, 
and he fell into an apoplexy and palsy, which numbed his 
parts ; and he never recovered the strength of them. He 
out-lived the judgment in the quo warranto ,- but was not 
present otherwise than by sending his opinion, by one of the 
judges, to be for the king, who, at the pronouncing of the 
judgment, declared it to be the court accordingly, which is 
frequently done in like cases." 

Although we have been able to give but a few of the 
choice peculiarities of these volumes, our readers will be 
able to gather, from our extracts, that the profession of the 
law was a very different thing in the reign of Charles the 
second, from what it is in the present era. There was some- 
thing in it more robust and hearty than there is now. Law- 
yers treated on the dryest subjects, in a " full and heightened 
style," which now would receive merited ridicule, because it 
is natui-al no longer. When Lord Coke " wanders in the 
wilderness of the laws of the f)rest," — or stops to "recreate 
himself with a view of Dido's deer," — or looks on his own 
fourth institute, as " the high and honourable buUding of the 
jurisdiction of the courts," — we feel that he uses the language 
of metaphor, merely because he thinks in it. Modern im- 
provement has introduced a division of labour among the 

16* 



182 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

faculties. The regions of imagination and of reality are se- 
parated by stricter and more definite limits, than in the days 
of old. Our poems and orations are more wild and ex- 
travagant, and our ordinary duties more dry and laborious. 
Men have learned to refine on their own feelings— to ana- 
lyze all their sensations — to class all their powers, feelings, 
and fantasies, as in a museum ; and to mark and label them 
so that they may never be applied, except to appropriate 
uses. The imagination is only cultivated as a kind of exo- 
tic luxury. No one unconsciously writes in a picturesque 
style, or suffers the colour of his thoughts to suffuse itself 
over his disquisitions, without caring for the effect on the 
reader. The rich conceit is either suppressed, or carefully 
reserved to adorn some cold oration where it may be duly 
applauded. Our ancestors permitted the wall-flower, when 
it would, to spread out its sweets from the massive battle- 
ment, without thinking there was any thmg extraordi- 
nary in its growth, or desiring to transplant it to a garden, 
where it would add little fragrance, to the perfume of other 
flowers. 

The study of the law has sunk of late years. Formerly 
the path of those by whom it was chosen, though steep and 
rugged, Avas clear and open before them. Destitute of ad- 
ventitious aids, they were compelled to salutary and hope- 
ful toUs. They were forced to trace back every doctrine to 
the principle which was its germ, and to search for their pre- 
cedents amidst the remotest grandeur of our history. Pa- 
tient labour was requu-ed of them, but their I'eward was 
certain. In the most barren and difficult parts of their as- 
cent, they found at least in the masses which they surmount- 
ed the stains and colourings of a humanizing antiquity to 
soften and to dignify their labours. But abridgments, com- 
mentaries, and digests without number, have precluded the 
necessity of these liberal researches, while the vast accumu- 
lation of statutes and decisions have rendered them almost 
hopeless. Instead of a difficult mountain to ascend, there is a 
briery labyrynth to penetrate. Wearied out with vain at- 
tempts, the student accepts such temporary helps as he can 
procure, and despairs of reducing the ever-increasing multi- 
tude of decisions to any fixed and intelligible principles. 
Thus his labours are not directed to a visible goal — nor 



north's life op lord GUILFORD. 183 

cheered by the venerableness of old time — nor crowned with 
that certainty of conclusion, which is the best reward of 
scientific researches. The lot of a superficial student of a 
dry science, is of all conditions the most harassing and fruit- 
less. The evil must increase until it shall work its own 
cure — until accumulated reports shall lose their authority — 
or the legislature shall be compelled, by the vastness of the 
mischief, to undertake the tremendous task of revising 
and condensing the whole statute law, and fixing the con- 
struction of the unwritten maxims within some tolerable 
boundaries. 



184 TALFOURD's MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS. 



REVIEW OF THE DRAMATIC LITERATURE 
OF THE AGE OF ELIZABETH. 

[Edinburgh Review.] 

If Mr. Hazlitt has not generally met with impartial justice 
from his contemporaries, we must say that he has himself 
partly to blame. Some of the attacks of which he has been 
the object, have, no doubt, been purely brutal and malignant; 
but others have, in a great measure, arisen from feelings of 
which he has himself set the example. His seeming care- 
lessness of that public opinion which he would influence — 
his love of startling paradoxes — and his intrusion of politi- 
cal virulence, at seasons when the mind is prepared only for 
the delicate investigations of taste, have naturally provoked 
a good deal of asperity, and prevented the due appreciation 
of his powers. We shall strive, however, to divest ourselves 
of all prepossessions, and calmly to estimate those talents 
and feelings which he has here brought to the contempla- 
tion of such beauty and grandeur, as none of the low pas- 
sions of this " ignorant present time " should ever be per- 
mitted to overcloud. 

Those who regard Mr. Hazlitt as an ordinary writer, have 
little right to accuse him of suffering antipathies in philosophy 
or politics to influence his critical decisions. He possesses 
one excellent quality at least for the office which he has 
chosen, in the intense admiration and love which he feels for 
the great authors on whose excellences he chiefly dwells. 
His relish for their beauties is so keen, that while he de- 
scribes them, the pleasures which they impart become almost 
palpable to the sense ; and we seem, scarcely in a figure, to 
feast and banquet on their " nectared sweets." He introduces, 



haslitt's lecture on the drama. 185 

us almost corporally into the divine presence of the Great of 
old time — enables us to hear the living oracles of wisdom 
drop from their lips — and makes us partakers, not only of 
those joys which they diffused, but of those which they felt 
in the inmost recesses of their souls. He draws aside the 
veil of Time with a hand tremulous with mingled delight and 
reverence ; and descants, with kindling enthusiasm, on all 
the delicacies of that picture of genius which he discloses. 
His intense admiration of intellectual beauty seems always 
to sharpen his critical faculties. He perceives it, by a kind 
of intuitive power, how deeply soever it may be bm'ied in 
rubbish ; and separates it, in a moment, from all that would 
encumber or deface it. At the same time, he exhibits to us 
those hidden sources of beauty, not like an anatomist, but 
like a lover : He does not coolly dissect the form to show the 
springs whence the blood flows all eloquent, and the divine 
expression is kindled ; but makes us feel it in the sparkling 
or soflened eye, the wreathed smile, and the tender bloom. 
In a word, he at once analyzes and describes, — so that our 
enjoyments of loveliness are not chilled, but brightened, by 
our acquaintance with their inward sources. The knowledge 
communicated in his lectures, breaks no sweet enchantment, 
nor chills one feeling of youthful joy. His criticisms, while 
they extend our insight into. the causes of poetical excellence, 
teach us, at the same time, more keenly to enjoy, and more 
fondly to revere it. 

It must seem, at first sight, strange, that powers like these 
should have failed to excite universal sympathy. Much, 
doubtless, of the coldness and misrepresentation cast on them 
has arisen from causes at which we have already hinted — 
from the apparent readiness of the author to " give up to 
party what was meant for mankind " — and from the occa- 
sional breaking in of personal animosities on that deep har- 
mony which should attend the reverent contemplation of 
genius. But we apprehend that there are other causes which 
have diminished the influence of Mr. Hazlitt's faculties, ori- 
ginating in his mind itself; — and these we shall endeavour 
briefly to specify. 

The chief of these may, we think, be ascribed primarily to 
the want of proportion, of arrangement, and of harmony in 
his powers. His mind resembles the " rich stronde " which 



186 TALFOURD's MISCELLAXEOr? NVKiriNGS. 

S^ieiioer has so nobly described, and to whioli he has Wniself 
likened the age of Elizalx>th, where treasures of eveiy de- 
scription lie, witlioiu order, in inexhaustible profusion. No- 
ble masses of exquisite marble ai"e there, which might be 
tasliiontxi to support a glorious temple ; and gems of peerless 
lustre, wluch would adorn the holiest shrine. He has no 
lack of the deepest leelings, tlie prollnuidost sentiments of 
Inmianity, or the lottiest aspirations atter ideal gxxid. But 
tliere are no great leading principles of taste to give shigle- 
ness to his aims, nor any I'cntral points in his mind, around 
which his ttvling^? may revolve, and his imaginations cluster. 
There is no suthcient distu\ction between his intellci^tual and 
his imaginative laculties. He contbunds the truths of imagi- 
nation >\"ifh those of fact — the prtx^esses of argument with 
those of feeling — the iunuunities of intellect with those of 
virtue. Hence the seeming -inconsistency of many of his 
doctriHCs. Hence the waa;t of all continuity in his style. 
Hence his failure in producii\g one single, harmonious, and 
lasting impression on the hearts of his hearers. He never 
^\•aits to consider whether a seiitiment or an image is in place 
— so it be in itself striking. The ketn\ sense of pleasiire in 
iutelkvtual beauty \\iuch is the best charm of his writing's, is 
also his chief deluder. He cam\ot resist a p«.~>N\crliil image, 
an exquisite quotation, or a pregnant remark, however it ma\- 
dissipate or even subvert the genea-al feeling which his theme 
should inspire. Thus, on one occasion, in the midst of a 
\iolent political invei^tive, he represents the obkvts of lus 
scorn as *• having been beguiled, like Miss Olariss^i Harlowe. 
into a house of ill-fame. and. Uke her. delcnding themselves to 
the last;" as if the reader's whole cmrent of feeling would 
iiot be diverted from all political disputes, by the i-emem- 
brance tlms awakened of one of the sublimest scenes of n>- 
mance ever embodieti by human jxiwer. He will never be 
contented to touch that most strange and cmious instrument, 
the iuunan heart, ^^•ith a steady aim, but throws his hand 
rapidl>- over the chords, mingling strange discord with " most 
ekxiucnt nmsic." Instead of conducting us onwai"d to a given 
object, he o^vns so many deliciotis prospects by the way-side, 
and sutlers us to g-aze at thcni so long, tiiat we forget tJie 
end of our purney. He is pori.xnualIy dazzk\l among the 
sunbeams of his llmcy, iind inlays witli them in eleg-ant fan- 



hazlitt's lectures on the drama. 187 

tasy, when he should point tliem to the spots where they 
might fall on tnith and beauty, and render them visible by a 
clearer and lovelier radiance than had yet revealed them. 

The work before us is not the best verification of these 
remarks ; for it has more of continuity and less of paradox 
than any of his previous writings. With the exception of 
some strong political allusions in the account of the Sejanus 
of Ben Jonson, it is entirely free from those expressions of 
party feeling which respect for an audience, consisting of 
men of all parties, and men of no party, ought always to re- 
strain. There is also none of that personal bitterness to- 
wards Messrs. Wonlsworth, Coleridge, and Southey, which 
disfigured his former lectures. His hostility towards these 
poets, the associates of liis early days, has always indeed 
been mingled Avith some redeeming feelings which have 
heightened the regret occasioned by its public disclosure- 
While he has pursued them with all possible severity of in- 
vective, and acuteness of sarcasm, he lias protected their in- 
tellectual character with a chivalrous zeal. He has spoken 
as if " his only hate had sprung from his only love ;" and his 
thoughts of its objects, deep rooted in old affection, could not 
lose all traces of their "primal sympathy." His bitterest 
language has had its dash of the early sweets, which no 
changes of opinion could entirely destroy. Still his audiences 
and his readers had ample ground of complaint for the intru- 
sion of personal findings, in inquiries which should be sacred 
from all discordant emotions. We rejoice to observe, that 
this blemish is now effiiced ; and that full and free course is 
at last given to that deep humanity which has ever held its 
cuiTcnt in liis productions, sometimes in open day, and some- 
times beneath the soil which it fertilized, though occasionally 
dashed and thrown back in its course by the obstacles of 
prejudice and of passion. 

The first of these lectures consists of a general view of 
the subject, expressed in terms of the deepest veneration and 
of the most passionate eulogy. After eloquently censuring 
the gross prejudice, that genius and beauty are things of 
modern discovery, or that in old time a few amazing spirits 
shone forth amidst general darkness, as the harbingers of 
brighter days, the author proceeds to combat the notion that 



188 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

Shakspeare was a sort of monster of poetical genius, and all 
his contemporaries of an order far below him. 

" He, indeed, overlooks and commands the admiration of 
posterity ; but he does it from the table land of the age in 
which he lived. He towered above his fellows ' in shade and 
gesture proudly eminent ;' but he was but one of a race of 
giants, — the tallest, the strongest, the most graceful and beau- 
tiful of them; — but it was a common and noble brood. He 
was not something sacred and aloof from the vulgar herd of 
men, but shook hands with Nature and the circumstances of 
the time ; and is distinguished from his immediate contempo- 
raries, not in kind, but in degree, and greater variety of ex- 
cellence. He did not form a class or species by himself, but 
belonged to a class or species. His age was necessaiy to 
him ; nor could he have been wrenched from his place in the 
edifice, of which he was so conspicuous a part, without equal 
injury to himself and it Mr. Wordsworth says of Milton, 
that ' his soul was like a star, and dwelt apart.' This can- 
not be said with any propriety of Shakspeare, who certainly 
moved in a constellation of bright luminaries, and ' drew after 
him the third part of the heavens.' " pp. 12, 13. 

The author then proceeds to investigate the general causes 
of that sudden and rich development of poetical feeling which 
forms his theme. He attributes it chiefly to the mighty im- 
pulse given to thought by the Reformation — to the disclosure 
of aU the marvellous stores of sacred antiquity, by the trans- 
lation of the Scriptures — and to the infinite sweetness, breath- 
ing from the divine character of the Messiah, with which he 
seems to imagine that the people were not famUiar in darker 
ages. We are far from insensible to the exquisite beauty 
with which this last subject is treated ; and fully agree with 
our author, that "there is something in the character of 
Christ, of more sweetness and majesty, and more likely to 
work a change in the mind of man, than any to be found in 
history, whether actual or feigned." But we cannot think 
that the gentle influences which that character shed upon 
the general heart, were weak or partial even before the 
translation of the Scriptures. The young had received it, 



HAZLITt's lectures OS THE DRAMA. 1 89 

not from books, but from the living voice of their parents, 
made softer in its tones by reverence and love. It had tem- 
pered early enthusiasm, and prompted visions of celestial 
beauty, in the souls even of the most low, before men had 
been taught to reason on their faith. The instances of the 
Saviour's compassion — his wondrous and beneficent mira- 
cles — his agonies and death, did not lie forgotten during cen- 
turies, because the people could not read of them. They 
were written " on the fleshy tables of the heart," and soft- 
ened the tenour of humble existence, while superstition, igno- 
rance and priestcraft held sway in high places. 

These old feelings of love, however, tended greatly to 
sweeten and moderate the first excursions of the intellect, 
when released from its long thraldom. The new opening of 
the stores of Classic lore, of Ancient History, of Italian Poe- 
try, and of Spanish Romance, contributed much, doubtless, 
to the incitement and the perfection of our national genius. 
The discovery of the New World, too, opened fresh fields 
for the imagination to revel in. "Green islands, and golden 
sands," says our author, " seemed to arise as by enchantment 
out of the bosom of the watery waste, and invite the cu- 
pidity, or wing the imagination of the dreaming speculator. 
Fairy land was realized in new and unknown worids." — 
"Fortunate fields, and groves, and flowery vales — thrice 
happy isles," were found floating " like those Hesperian gai- 
dens famed of old,"— " beyond Atlantic seas, as dropped from 
the zenith." Ancient superstitions also still lingered among 
the people. The romance of human life had not then de- 
parted. It " was more full of traps and pitfalls ; of moving 
accidents by flood and field : more way-laid by sudden and 
startling evils, it stood on the brink of hope and fear, or stum- 
bled upon fate unawares, — while imagination, close behind 
it, caught at and cltmg to the shape of danger, or snatched a 
wild and fearful joy from its escape." The martial and he- 
roic spirit was not dead. It was comparatively an age of 
peace, " Like Strength reposing on his own right arm ;" but 
the sound of civil combat might still be heard Fn the distance, 
—the spear glittered to the eye of memory, or the clashing 
of armour struck on the imagination of the ardent and the 
young. The people of that day were borderers on the savage 
17 ° 



190 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

state, on the times of war and bigotry,— though themselves 
in the lap of arts, of luxury, and knowledge. They stood 
on the shore, and saw the billows rolling after the storm. 
They heard the tumult, and were still. Another source of 
imaginative feelings, which Mr. Hazlitt quotes from Mr. 
Lamb, is found in the distinctions of dress, and aU the exter- 
nal symbols of trade, profession, and degree, by which "the 
surface of society was embossed with hieroglyphics, and 
poetry existed in act and complement extern." Lastly, our 
author alludes to the first enjoyment and uncontrolled range 
of our old poets through Nature, whose fairest flowers were 
then imcropped, — and to the movements of the soul then laid 
open to their view, without disguise or control. All those 
causes Mr. Hazlitt regards as directed, and their immediate ef- 
fects as united by the genius of our country, native, unaffected, 
sturdy, and unyielding. His lecture concludes ^vlth a cha- 
racter, equaUy beautiful and just, of the Genius of our Poetry, 
with reference to the classical models, as having more of Pan 
than of Apollo :— " but Pan is a God, ApoUo is no more !" 

The five succeeding Lectures contain the opinions of the 
author on most of the celebrated works produced from the 
time of the Reformation, until the death of Charles the First. 
The second comprises the characters of Lyly, Mario w, Hey- 
wood, Middleton, and Rowley. The account of Lyly's 
Endymion is worthy of that sweet but singular Avork. The 
address of Euraenides to Endymion, on his awaking from 
his long sleep, " Behold the twig to which thou laidest down 
thy head is become a tree," is indeed, as described by our 
author, " an exquisitely chosen image, and dumb proof of 
the manner in which he has passed his life from youth to old 
age,— in a dream, a dream of love !" His description of 
Marlow's qualities, when he says " there is a lust of power 
in his writings, a hunger and thirst after unrighteousness, a 
glow of the imagination unhallowed by any thing but its 
own energies," is very striking. The characters of Middleton 
and Rowley in this Lecture, and those of Marston, Chapman, 
Deckar, and Webster in the third, are sketched with great 
spirit ; and the peculiar beauties of each are dwelt on in a 
slyle and with a sentiment congenial with the predominant 
feeling of the poet. At the close of the Lecture, the observa- 
tion, that the old Dramatic writers have nothing theatrical 



hazlitt's lectures on the drama. 191 

about them, introduces the following eulogy on that fresh 
delight which books are ever ready to yield us. 

" Here, on Salisbury Plain, where I write this, even here, 
with a few old autliors, I can manage to get through the 
summer or the winter months, without ever knowing what 
it is to feel ennui. They sit with me at breakfast, they walk 
out with me before dinner. After a long walk through un- 
fi'equented tracts, — after starting the hare from the fern, or 
hearing the wing of the raven rustling above my head, or 
being greeted with the woodman's ' stern goodnight' as he 
strikes into his narrow homeward path, — I can take ' mine 
ease at mine inn' beside the blazing hearth, and shake hands 
with Signor Orlando Frescobaldo, as the oldest acquaintance 
I have. Ben Jonson, learned Chapman, Master Webster, 
and Master Hey wood are there ; and, seated round, dis- 
course the silent hours away. Shakspeare is there himself, 
rich in Gibber's Manager's coat. Spenser is hardly returned 
from a ramble through the woods, or is concealed behind a 
group of nymphs, fawns, and satyrs. Milton lies on the 
table as on an altar, never taken up or laid down without 
reverence. Lyly's Endymion sleeps with the moon that 
shines in at the window ; and a breath oi wind stu'ring at a 
distance, seems a sigh from the tree under which he grew 
old. Faustus disputes in one corner of the room with fiendish 
faces, and reasons of divine astrology. Bellafront soothes 
Mattheo, Vittoria triumphs over her Judges, and old Chap- 
man repeats one of the hymns of Homer, in his own fine 
translation." pp. 136-7. 

The spirit of this passage is veiy deep and cordial; and 
the expression, for the most part, exquisite. But we wonder 
that Mr. Hazlitt should commit so great an incongi'uity, as 
to represent the other poets around him in person, while 
Milton, introduced among the rest, is used only as the title 
of a book. Why are other authors to be " seated round," 
to cheer the critic's retirement as if living, — while Milton, 
like a petition in the House of Commons, is only ordered " to 
lie upon the table ?" 

In the Fourth Lecture, ample justice is done to Beaumont 
and Fletcher, Massinger and Ben Jonson ; but we think the 



192 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

same measure is not meted to Ford. We cannot regard the 
author of '"Tis Pity she's a Whore," and "the Broken 
Heart," as " finical and fastidious." We are directly at issue, 
indeed, with our author on his opinions respecting the catas- 
trophe of the latter tragedy. Calantha, Princess of Sparta, 
is celebratmg the nuptials of a noble pair, with solemn 
dancing, when a messenger enters, and informs her that the 
King, her father is dead : — she dances on. Another report 
is brought to her, that the sister of her betrothed husband is 
starved ; — she calls for the other change. A third informs 
her that Ithocles, her lover, is cruelly murdered ; — she com- 
plains that the music sounds dull, and orders sprightlier 
measures. The dance ended, she announces herself Q.ueen, 
pronounces sentence on the murderer of Ithocles, and directs 
the ceremonials of her coronation to be immediately pre- 
pared. Her commands are obeyed. She enters the Temple 
in white, crowned, while the dead body of her husband is 
borne on a hearse, and placed beside the altar ; at which 
she kneels in silent prayer. After her devotions, she ad- 
dresses Nearchus, Prince of Argos, as though she would 
choose him for her husband, and lays down all orders for 
the regulation of her kingdom, under the guise of proposals 
of marriage. This done, she turns to the body of Ithocles, 
"the sliadow of her contracted lord," puts her mother's wed- 
ding ring on his finger, " to new-marry him whose wife she 
is," and from whom death shall not part her. She then 
kisses his cold lips, and dies smiling. This Mr. Hazlitt calls 
"tragedy in imasquerade," "the true false gallop of senti- 
ment ;" and declares, that " any thing more artificial and 
mechanical he cannot conceive." He regards the whole 
scene as a forced transposition of one in Marston's Mal- 
content, where Aurelia dances on in defiance to the world, 
when she hears of the death of a detested husband. He ob- 
serves, " that a woman should call for music, and dance on 
in spite of the death of a husband whom she hates, without 
regard to common decency, is but too possible : that she 
should dance on with the same heroic perseverance, in spite 
of the death of her father, and of every one else whom she 
loves, from regard to common courtesy or appearance, is not 
surely natural. The passions may silence the voice of hu- 
manity; but it is, I think, equally against probability and 



hazlitt's lectures on the drama. 193 

decorum, to make both the passions and the voice of hu- 
manity give way (as in the example of Calantha) to a mere 
form of outward behaviour. Such a suppression of the 
strongest and most uncontrollable feelings, can only be justi- 
fied from necessity, for some great purpose, — which is not 
the case in Ford's play ; or it must be done for the effect 
and eclat of the thing, which is not fortitude but affectation." 
The fallacy of this criticism appears to us to lie in the as- 
sumption, that the violent suppression of her feelings by the 
heroine was a mere piece of court etiquette — a compliment 
to the ceremonies of a festival. Surely the object was noble, 
and the effort sublime. While the deadly force of son^ow 
oppressed her heart, she felt that she had solemn duties to 
discharge, and that, if she did not arm herself against afflic- 
tion till they were finished, she could never perform them. 
She could seek temporary strength only fcy refusing to 
pause — by hurrying on the final scene ; and dared not to 
give the least vent to the tide of grief, which would at once 
have relieved her overcharged heart, and left her, exhausted, 
to die. Nothing less than the appearance of gaiety could 
hide or suppress the deep anguish of her soul. We agree 
with Mr. Lamb, whose opinion is referred to by our author, 
that there is scarcely in any other play " a catastrophe so 
grand, so solemn, and so surprising as this !" 

The Fifth Lecture, on Single Plays and Poems, brings into 
view many curious specimens of old humour, hitherto little 
known, and which sparkle brightly in their new setting. 
The Sixth, on Miscellaneous Poems and Works, is chiefly 
remarkable for the admu-able criticism on the Arcadia of Sir 
Philip Sidney, with which it closes. Here the critic separates 
with great skill the wheat from the chaff, showing at once 
the power of his author, and its perversion, and how images 
of touching beauty and everlasting truth are marred by "the 
spirit of Gothic quaintness, criticism, and conceit." The pas- 
sage, which is far too long for quotation, makes us desire 
more earnestly than ever that an author, capable of so lucid 
and convincing a development of his critical doctrines, would 
less frequently content himself with giving the mere results 
of his thought, and even conveying these in the most abrupt 
and startling language. A remark uttered in the parenthesis 
of a sarcasm, or an image thrown in to heighten a piece of 

17* 



194 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

irony, might often furnish extended matter for the delight 
of those whom it now only disgusts or bewilders. 

The Seventh Lecture, on the works of Lord Bacon, com- 
pared as to style with those of Sir Thomas Browne and of 
Jeremy Taylor, is very unequal. The character of Lord 
Bacon is eloquent, and the praise sufficiently lavish ; but it 
does not show any proper knowledge of his works. That 
of Jeremy Taylor is somewhat more appropriate, but too full 
of gaudy images and mere pomp of words. The style of 
that delicious writer is ingeniously described as " prismatic ;" 
though there is too much of shadowy chUlness in the phrase, 
adequately to represent the warm and tender bloom which 
he casts on all that he touches. And when we are after- 
wards told that it " unfolds the colours of the rainbow ; floats 
like a bubble through the air ; or is like innumerable dew 
drops, that glitter on the face of morning, and twinkle as 
they glitter ;" — we can only understand that the critic means 
to represent it as variegated, light and sparkling : But it 
appears to us that the style of Jeremy Taylor is like nothing 
unsubstantial or airy. The blossoms put forth in his works 
spring from a deep and eternal stock, and have no similitude 
to any thing w^avering or unstable. His account of Sir 
Thomas Browne, however, seems to us very characteristic, 
both of himself and of that most extraordinary of English 
writers. We can make room only for a part of it. 

" As Bacon seemed to bend all his thoughts to the practice 
of life, and to bring home the light of science ' to the bosoms 
and business of men,' Sir Thomas Browne seemed to be of 
opinion, that the only business of life was to think ; and that 
the proper object of speculation was, by darkening know- 
ledge, to breed more speculation, and ' find no end in wan- 
dering mazes lost.' He chose the incomprehensible and the 
impracticable, as almost the only subjects fit for a lofty and 
lasting contemplation, or for the exercise of a solid faith. He 
cried out for an ' oh altitudo ' beyond the heights of revela- 
tion ; and posed himself with apocryphal mysteries as the 
pastime of his leisure hours. He pushes a question to the 
utmost verge of conjecture, that he may repose on the cer- 
tainty of doubt ; and he removes an object to the greatest 
distance from him, that he may take a high and abstracted 



hazlitt's lectures on the drama. 195 

interest in it, consider it in relation to tlie sum of things, not 
to liimself, and bewilder his understanding in the universality 
of its nature, and the inscrutableness of its origin. His is the 
sublime of indifference ; a passion for the abstruse and imagi- 
nary. He turns the world round for his amusement, as if it 
were a globe of pasteboard. He looks down on sublunary af- 
fairs 'as if he had taken his station in one of the planets. The 
antipodes are next door neighbours to him ; and doomsday 
is not far off. With a thought he imbraces both the poles ; 
the march of his pen is over the great divisions of geography 
and chronology. Nothing touches him nearer than humani- 
ty. He feels that he is mortal only in the decay of nature, 
and the dust of long-forgotten tombs. The finite is lost in 
the infinite. The orbits of the heavenly bodies, or the his- 
tory of empires, are to him but a point in time, or a speck in 
the universe. The great Platonic year revolves in one of 
his periods. Nature is too little for the grasp of his style. 
He scoops an antithesis out of fabulous antiquity, and rakes 
up an epithet from the sweepings of chaos. It is as if his 
books had dropped from the clouds, or as if Friar Bacon's 
head could speak. He stands on the edge of the world of 
sense and reason, and gets a vertigo by looking down at 
impossibilities and chimeras. Or he busies himself with the 
mysteries of the Cabbala, or the enclosed secrets of the hea- 
venl}'^ quincunxes, as children are amused with tales of the 
nursery. The passion of curiosity (the only passion of child- 
hood) had in him survived to old age, and had superannuated 
his other faculties. He moralizes and grows pathetic on a 
mere idle fancy of his own, as if thought and being were 
the same, or as if ' all this world were one glorious lie.' He 
had the most intense consciousness of contradictions and 
nonentities ; and he decks them out in the pride and pe- 
dantry of words, as if they Avere the attire of his proper 
person. The categories hang about his neck like the gold 
chain of knighthood ; and he ' walks gowned ' in the intri- 
cate folds and swelling drapery of dark sayings and impene- 
trable riddles." pp. 292-295, 

The Eighth and Last Lecture begins with a few words on 
the merits of Shell, Tobin, Lamb, and Cornwall, who, in our 
own time, have written in the spirit of the elder dramatists. 



196 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

The observations in thiis Lecture, on the spirit of the roman- 
tic and classic literature, are followed by a striking develop- 
ment of the materials, and an examination of the success of 
the German Drama. Mr. Hazlitt attributes the triumph of 
its monstrous paradoxes to those abuses and hypocrisies of 
society, those incoherences between its professions and its 
motives, which excite enthusiastic minds to seek for the op- 
posite, at once, of its defects and blessings. His account of 
liis own sensations on the first perusal of the Robbers, is 
one of the most striking passages in the work. 

" I have half trifled with this subject ; and I believe I 
have done so because I despaired of finding language for 
some old-rooted feelings I have about it, which a theory 
could neither give, nor can it take away. The Robbers 
was the first play I ever read ; and the effect it produced 
upon me was the greatest. It stunned me like a blow; 
and I have not recovered enough fi-om it to tell how it was. 
There are impressions which neither time nor circumstances 
can efface. Wei'e I to live much longer than I have any 
chance of doing, the books I have read when I was yoimg, 
I can never forget. Five-and-twenty years have elapsed 
since I first read the translation of the Robbers, but they 
have not blotted the impression from my mind ; it is here 
stiU — an old dweller in the chambers of the brain. The 
scene, in particular, in which Moor looks through his tears at 
the evening sun from the mountain's brow, and says in his 
despair, ' It was my wish like him to live, like him to die : it 
was an idle thought, a boy's conceit,' took first hold of my 
imagination, — and that sun has to me never set !" 

While we sympathize in all Mr. Hazlitt's sentiments of re- 
verence for the mighty works of the older times, we must 
guard against that exclusive admiration of antiquity, ren- 
dered fashionable by some great critics, which would induce 
the belief that the age of genius is past, and the world grown 
too old to be romantic. We can observe in these Lectures, 
and in other works of their author, a jealousy of the ad- 
vances of civilization as lessening the dominion of fancy. 
But this is, we think, a dangerous error ; tending to chDI the 
earliest aspirations after excellence, and to roll its rising en- 
ergies back on the kindling soul. There remains yet abun- 



huzlitt's lectures on the drama. 197 

dant space for genius to possess ; and science is rather the 
pioneer than the impeder of its progress. The level roads, 
indeed, which it cuts through unexplored regions, are, in 
themselves, less fitted for its wanderings, than the tangled 
ways through which it delights to stray ; but they afford it 
new glhnpses into the wild scenes and noble vistas which 
open near them, and enable it to deviate into fresh scenes of 
beauty, and hitherto unexplored fastnesses. The face of 
nature changes not with the variations of fashion. One state 
of society may be somewhat more favourable to the deve- 
lopment of genius than another ; but wherever its divine 
.seed is cast, there will it strike its roots far beneath the sur- 
face of artificial life, and rear its branches into the heavens, 
far above the busy haunts of common mortals. 



198 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 



VARIOUS PROSPECTS OF MANKIND, NA- 
TURE, AND PROVIDENCE. 

[Retrospective Review.] 

Mr. Wallace, the author of tlie work before us, was of 
the number of those speculators who have delighted to form 
schemes of ideal felicity for their species. Men of this class, 
often despised as dreaming theorists, have been found among 
the best and wisest of all ages. Those, indeed, who have 
seen the forthest into their nature, have found the surest 
grounds of hope even for its earthly progress. Their enthu- 
siasm has been, at the least, innoxious. The belief, that 
humanity is on the decline — that the energ}'^ of man is de- 
caying — that the heart is becoming harder — and that imagi- 
nation and intellect are dwindling away — lays an icy finger 
on the soul, confirms the most debasing selfishness, and tends 
to retard the good which it denies. We propose, therefore, 
in this article very cursorily to inquire how far the iiopes of 
those who believe that man is, on the whole, advancing, are 
sanctioned by experience and by reason. 

But we must not forget, that, in the very work before us, 
an obstacle to the happiness of the species is brought forward, 
which has subsequently been explained as of a dreadful na- 
ture, and has been represented as casting an impenetrable 
gloom over the brightest anticipations of human progress. 
We shall first set it forth in the words of Wallace — then 
trace its expansion and various application by Malthus — 
and inquire how far it compels us to despair for man. 

"Under a perfect government, the inconveniencies of 
ha\ing a family would be so entirely removed, children 



Wallace's prospects of mankind, &c. 1 09 

would be so well taken care of, and every thing become .so 
favourable to populousness, that tlujugh some sickly seasons 
or dreadful plagues in particular climates might cut off multi- 
tudes, yet, in general, mankind would increase so prodi- 
giously, that the earth v/ould at last be overstocked, and 
become unable to support its numerous inhabitants. 

" How long the earth, with the best culture of which it is 
capable from human genius and industry, might be able to 
nourish its perpetually increasing inhabitants, is as impossible 
as it is unnecessary to bo determined. It is not probable that 
it could have supported them during so long a period as since 
the creation of Adam. But whatever may be supposed of 
the length of this period, of necessity it must be granted, that 
the earth could not nourish them for ever, unless either it.s 
fertility could be continually augmented, or, by some secret 
in nature, like what certain enthusiasts have expected from 
the philosopher's stone, some wise adept in the occult sciences 
should invent a method of supporting mankind quite different 
from any thing known at present. Nay, though some ex- 
traordinary method of supporting them might possibly be 
found out, yet, if there was no bound to the increase of man- 
kind, which would be the case under a perfect goverrmient, 
there would not even be sufficient room for containing their 
bodies upon the surface of the earth, or upon any limited 
surface whatsoever. It would be necessary, therefore^ in 
order to find room for such multitudes of men, that the earth 
should be continually enlarging in bulk, as an animal or 
vegetable body. 

" Now, since philosophers may as soon attempt to make 
mankind immortal, as to support the animal frame without 
food, it is equally certain, that limits are set to the fertility of 
the earth ; and that its bulk, so far as is hitherto known, hath 
continued always the same, and probably could not be much 
altered without making considerable changes in the solar 
system. It would be impossible, therefore, to support the 
great numbers of men who would be raised up under a per- 
fect government; the earth would be overstocked at last, 
and the greatest admirers of such fanciful schemes must 
foresee the fatal period when they would come to an end, as 
they are altogether inconsistent with the limits of that earth 
in which they must exist. 



200 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

" What a miserable catastrophe of the most generous of 
all human systems of government ! How dreadfully would 
the magistrates of such commonwealths find themselves dis- 
concerted at that fatal period, when there was no longer any 
room for new colonies, and when the earth could produce no 
farther supplies ! During all the preceding ages, whDe there 
was room for increase, mankind must have been happy ; the 
earth must have been a paradise in the literal sense, as the 
greatest part of it must have been turned into delightful and 
fruitful gardens. But when the dreadful time should at last 
come, when our globe, by the most diligent culture, could 
not produce what was sufficient to nourish its numerous in- 
habitants, what happy expedient could then be found out to 
remedy so great an evil ? 

" In such a cruel necessity, must there be a law to restrain 
marriage ? Must multitudes of women be shut up in clois- 
ters, like the ancient vestals or modern nuns ] To keep a 
ballance between the two sexes, must a proportionable num- 
ber of men be debarred from marriage 1 Shall the Utopians, 
following the wicked policy of superstition, forbid their priests 
to marry ; or shall they rather sacrifice men of some other 
profession for the good of the state ] Or, shall they appoint 
the sons of certain families to be maimed at their birth, and 
give a sanction to the unnatural institution of eunuchs T If 
none of these expedients can be thought proper, shall they 
appoint a certain number of infants to be exposed to death 
as soon as they are born, determining the proportion accord- 
ing to the exigencies of the state ; and pointing out the par- 
ticular victims by lot, or according to some established rule ? 
Or, must they shorten the period of human life by a law, and 
condemn all to die after they had completed a certain age, 
which might be shorter or longer, as provisions were either 
more scanty or plentiftil? Or Avhat other method should 
they devise (for an expedient would be absolutely neces- 
sary) to restrain the number of citizens within reasonable 
boimds ] 

" Alas ! how unnatural and inhuman must every such ex- 
pedient be acccounted ! The natural passions and appetites 
of mankind are planted in our firame, to answer the best ends 
for the happiness both of the individuals and of the species. 
Shall we be obliged to contradict such a wise order ? Shall 



Wallace's prospects of mankind, &c. 201 

we be laid under the necessity of acting barbarously and in- 
humanly'? Sad and fatal necessity! And which, after all, 
could never answer the end, but would give rise to violence 
and war. For mankind would never agree about such regu- 
lations. Force and arms must, at last, decide their quarrels, 
and the deaths of such as fall in battle leave sufficient provi- 
sions for the surAavers, and make room for others to be 
born. 

" Thus the tranquillity and numerous blessings of the Uto- 
pian governments would come to an end ; war, or cruel and 
unnatural customs, be introduced, and a stop put to the in- 
crease of mankind, to the advancement of knowledge, and to 
the culture of the earth, in spite of the most excellent laws 
and wisest precautions. The more excellent the laws had 
been, and the more strictly they had been observed, man- 
kind must have sooner become miserable. The remem- 
brance of former times, the greatness of their wisdom and 
virtue, would conspire to heighten their distress; and the 
world, instead of remaining the mansion of wisdom and hap- 
piness, become the scene of vice and confusion. Force and 
fraud must prevail, and mankind be reduced to the same 
calamitous condition as at present. 

" Such a melancholy situation, in consequence merely of 
the want of provisions, is in truth more unnatural than all 
their present calamities. Supposing men to have abused 
their liberty, by which abuse, vice has once been introduced 
into the world ; and that wrong notions, a bad taste, and 
vicious habits, have been strengthened by the defects of edu- 
cation and government, our present distresses may be easily 
explained. They may even be called natural, being the na- 
tural consequences of our depravity. They may be supposed 
to be the means by wliich Providence punishes vice ; and, 
by setting bounds to the increase of mankind, prevents the 
earth's being overstocked, and men being laid under the 
cruel necessity of killing one another. But to suppose, that 
in the course of a favourable Providence a perfect govern- 
ment had been established, under which the disorders of 
human passions had been powerfully corrected and re- 
strained; poverty, idleness, and war, banished; the earth 
made a paradise; universal friendship and concord esta- 
blished, and human society rendered flourishing in all re- 
18 



202 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

spects ; and that such a lovely constitution should be over- 
turned, not by the vices of men, or their abuse of liberty, but 
by the order of nature itself, seems wholly unnatural, and 
altogether disagreeable to the methods of Providence." 

To this passage, the gloomy theories of Mr. Malthus owe 
their origin. He took the evil, which Wallace regarded as 
awaiting the species in its highest state of earthly perfection, 
as instant and pressing in ahnost every state of society, and 
as causing mankind perpetually to oscillate. He represented 
natm-e herself as imposing an adamantine barrier to improve- 
ment. He depicted the tendency of the species to increase 
in numbers, as arising from passion, mad and ungovernable 
as well as universal, and as resisted, in its fatal consequences, 
only by war, famine, or disease. He maintained, that man 
was placed by nature between two tremendous evils, and 
could never recede fi'om the strait within which his move- 
ments were contracted. 

The system thus promulgated in the first edition of the 
work on Population, could not be well applied to any prac- 
tical uses. It tended to destroy the fair visions of human im- 
provement, and to place a gigantic demon m their room. But 
it could not form a part of any rational scheme of legislation, 
because it represented the evils which it depicted as hopeless. 
Its only moral was despair. But its author — a man whose 
personal benevolence withstood his doctrines — became anx- 
ious to discover some moral purposes to wliich he might 
apply his scheme. Accordingly, in his second edition, which 
was so altered and re- written as to be almost a new work, 
he introduced a new preventive check on the tendency of 
population to increase, wMch he designated "moral re- 
straint ;" and proposed to inculcate, by the negative course 
of leaving all those who did not practise it to the conse- 
quences of their en'or. This new feature appears to us 
subversive of the whole system, in so far, at least, as it is 
designed to exhibit insuperable obstacles to the progressive 
happiness of man. Instead of the evil being regarded as 
inevitable, a means was expressly enforced by which it 
might be completely avoided. Celibacy was shown to be a 
state of attainable and exalted viitue. In calculating on the 
tendency of the species to increase, we were no longer re- 



Wallace's prospects of mankind, &c. 203 

quired to speculate on a mere instinct, but on a thousand 
moral and intellectual causes — on the movements of reason, 
sensibility, imagination, and hope. The rainbow could be as 
easily grasped, or a sun-beam measured by a line, as the ope- 
rations of the blended passion and sentiment of love estimated 
by geometrical series! We will, however, examine a little 
more closely the popular objection to theories of human im- 
provement, which the principle of population is supposed to 
offer. 

The real question, in this case, is not whether, when the 
world is fully cultivated, the tendency of the species to in- 
crease will be greater than the means of subsistence ; but 
whether this tendency really presses on us at every step of 
our progress. For, if there is no insuperable barrier to the 
complete cultivation of the earth, the cessation of all the 
countless evils of war, and the union of all the brethren of 
mankind in one great family, we may safely tmst to Heaven 
for the rest. When this universal harmony shall begin, men 
will surely have attained the virtue and the wisdom to ex- 
ercise a self-denial, which Mr. Malthus himself represents as 
fully withui their power. In the era of knowledge and of 
peace, that degi-ee of self-sacrifice can scarcely be impossible, 
which, even now, our philosopher would inculcate at the 
peril of starvation. At least, there can be no danger in pro- 
moting the happiness of the species, until it shall arise to this 
fulness; for we are told, that every effort towards it pro^ 
duces a similar peril with that which will embitter its final 
reign. And if it should exist at last, we may safely believe, 
that He who pronounced the blessing, " increase and multi- 
ply," will not abandon the work of his hands ; but that this 
world then will have answered all the purposes of its crea- 
tion, and that immortal state will begin, " in which we shall 
neither marry nor be given in marriage, but be as the angels 
of God." 

Let us inquire, then, whether the evidence of history, or 
the present aspect of the world, warrant the belief, that the 
tendency of the species to increase beyond the means of sub- 
sistence is a necessary obstacle to the improvement of its 
condition. If the wretchedness of man really flowed from 
this source, it is strange that the discovery should not have 
been made during six thousand years of his misery. He is 



204 TALFOURD's miscellaneous "WRITINGS. 

not usually thus obtuse, respecting the cause of his soiTOWs. 
It will be admitted, that his distresses have most frequently- 
arisen from luxuiy and from war, as theii- immediate causes. 
The first will scarcely be attributed to the want of food ; nor 
can the second be traced to so fantastical an origin. Shak- 
speare, indeed, represents Coriolanus, in his insolent con- 
tempt for humanity, as rejoicing in the approach of war, as 
the means of " ventmg the musty superfluity " of the people ; 
but kings have not often engaged in the fearful game on so 
refined and philosophic principles. On the contrary, the 
strength of a state was alwa}7s regarded, in old time, as con-- 
sisting in the number of its citizens. And, indeed, it is im- 
possible that any of the gigantic evils of mankind should have 
arisen from the pressure of population against the means of 
subsistence ; because it is impossible to point out any one 
state in which the means of subsistence have been fially de- 
veloped and exhausted. If the want of subsistence, then, 
has ever afflicted a people, it has not arisen, except in case 
of temporary famine, from a deficiency in the means of sub- 
sistence, but in the mode and spuit of using them. The fault 
has been not in nature, but in man. Population may, in a 
few instances, have increased beyond the energy of the peo- 
ple to provide for it, but not beyond the resources which 
God has placed ^vithin their power. 

The assertion, that there is, in the constant tendency of 
population to press hardly against the means of subsistence, 
an insuperable check to any great improvement of the spe- 
cies, is in dii'ect contradiction to history. The species has 
increased in numbers, and has risen in intelligence, under 
far more unfavourable circumstances than the present, in 
spite of tliis fancied obstacle. There is no stage of civiliza- 
tion, in which the objection to any farther advance might not 
have been m^ged with as much plausibility as at the present. 
While any region, capable of fruitfulness, remains ui-iinha- 
bited and barren, the argmnent applies with no more force 
against its cultivation, than it would have applied against the 
desire of him who founded the first city to extend its boun- 
daries. While the world was before him, he might as rea- 
sonably have been warned to decline any plan for bringing 
■wastes into tillage, on the ground that the tendency of man 
to multiply would thus be incited beyond the means of sup- 



Wallace's prospects of mankind, &c. 205 

plying food, as we, in our time, while the greater part of the 
eartli yet remains to be possessed. And, indeed, the objec- 
tion has far less force now than at any preceding period ; — 
because not only is space left, but the aids of human power 
are far greater than in old time. Machinery now enables 
one man to do as much towards the supply of human wants> 
as could formerly have been done by hundreds. And shall 
we select this as the period of society in which the species 
must stand stUl, because the means of subsistence can be car- 
ried but a little farther 1 

It seems impossible to cast a cursory glance over the 
earth, and retain the belief, that there is some insuperable 
obstacle in the constitution of nature, to the development of 
its vast and imtried resources. Surely, immense regions of 
unbounded fertility — long successions of spicy groves — 
trackless pastures watered by ocean — rivers formed to let 
in wealth to the midst of a great continent — and islands 
which lie calmly on the breast of crystal seas were not cre- 
ated for eternal solitude and sOence. Until these are peo- 
pled, and the earth is indeed "replenished and subdued," the 
command and the blessing, " increase and multiply," must 
continue unrecalled by its great Author. Shall not Egypt 
revive its old fioiitfulness, and Palestiiie again flow with milk 
and honey 1 

The hypothesis, that population left to itself will increase 
in a geometrical progression, while the means of subsistence 
can only be enlarged in an arithmetical progression, is a 
mere fantasy. Vegetables, cattle, and fish, have far greater 
powers of productiveness than the human species ; and the 
only obstacle to those powers being developed in an equal 
degree, is the want of room for them to increase, or the want 
of energy or \visdom in man to apply the bounty of nature 
to its fittest uses. The first want camiot exist while the 
larger part of the earth is barren, and the riches of the'ocean 
remain unexhausted. The second, with all the disadvan- 
tages of ignorance, war, tyranny, and vice, has not prevented 
the boundaries of civilization from widely extending. What 
is there then in this particular stage of society, which should 
induce the belief, that the sinews of humanity are shrivelled 
upi and its energy falling to decay? The same quantity of 
food or of clothing — the same comforts and the same luxu- 

18* 



206 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

ries — which once required the labour of a hundred hands, 
are now produced ahnost without personal exertion. And 
is the spirit in man so broken down and debased, that, with 
all the aids of machineiy, he cannoi effect as much as the la- 
bour of his own right arm would achieve in the elder time 1 
If, indeed, he is thus degenerate, the fault, at least, is not in 
nature, but in external and transitory causes. But we are 
prepared clearly, though briefly, to show, that man has been 
and is, on the whole, advancmg in true virtue, and in moral 
and intellectual energy. 

It cannot be denied, that there are many apparent oscOla- 
tions in the course of the sj^jecies. If we look at only a small 
portion of history, it may seem retrograde, as a view of one 
of the windings of a noble river may lead us to imagine that 
it is flowing from the ocean. The intricacies of human af- 
fairs, the perpetual opposition of interests, prejudices, and 
passions, do not permit mankind to proceed in a right line ; 
but, if we overlook any large series of ages, we shall clearly 
perceive, that the course of man is towards perfection. In 
contemplating the past, our attention is naturally attracted to 
the illustrious nations, whose story is consecrated by our early 
studies. But even if we take these, and forget the savage 
barbarism of the rest of the world, we shall find little to ex- 
cite our envy. Far be it fi-om us to deny, that there were 
among these, some men of pure and disinterested virtue, 
whose names are like great sea-marks in the dreariness of 
the perspective, and whom fi.iture generations can only de- 
sire to imitate. Our natm'e has always had some to vindi- 
cate its high capabilities of good. But even among the privi- 
ledged classes of Greece and Rome — the selected minority, 
to whom all the rights of nature were confined more strictly 
than in the strictest modern despotism — how rare are the 
instances of real and genuine goodness ! The long succes- 
sion of bloody tragedies — that frightful alternation of cruel- 
ties and of meannesses— the Peloponnesian war, was perpe- 
trated in the midst of the people, who had just carried the 
arts to theii- highest perfection. Gratitude, honesty, and good 
faith, had no place in the breast of Athenian citizens. The 
morals of the Spartans were even more despicable than those 
of their rivals. Their mixture of barbarity and of craft to- 
wards their foes, and the states wMch were tributary to their 



Wallace's prospects of mankind, &c. 207 

power — tlieir unnatural sacrifice of the most sacred of the 
affections of nature to mere national glory — and thehr dread- 
ful conduct towards the wretched Helots, who were their 
property, — have scarcely a parallel in human history. The 
long conspiracy of Rome against the liberties of mankind, 
carried on from the time of its fomidation until it began to 
decline, served to string every sinew into a horrid rigidity, 
and to steel the heart to the feelings of compassion. This is 
the description of its progress by one of its own historians : 

" Raptores orbis, postquam cuncta vastantibus defuere ter- 
ras, et mare scrutantur ; si locuples hostis est, avari ; si pau- 
per, ambitiosi : quos non oriens non occidens satiaverit ; 
soli omnium opes atque inopiam pari affectu concupiscunt. 
Auferre, trucidare, rapere, falsis noininibus imperium, atque 
ubi solitudinem pacem appellent." {Tacitus Vit. Agricolae, 
30.) 

The proscriptions of Marius and Sylla alone proved what 
this savage spirit could perpetrate at home, when it had ex- 
hausted all opportunities of satiating, among foreign states, 
its thii'st for slaughter. 

If we pass over the improvements in morals — the amelio- 
ration of war — the progress of political science — and the 
redemption of the female sex from degradation and from 
bondage — we shall find, in one great change alone, ample 
reason to rejoice in the advances of the species. The sim- 
ple term, humaniti/, expresses the chief difference between 
our times and the brightest of classical ages. In those there 
was no feeling for man, as man — no recognition of a com- 
mon brother-hood — no sense of those qualities which all men 
have in common, and of those claims which those who are 
" made of one blood " have on each other for justice and for 
inercy. Manhood was nothing, citizenship was all in all. 
Nearly all the virtues were aristocratical and exclusive. The 
number of slaves — their dreadful condition — and the sanc- 
tion which the law gave to all the cruelties practised on 
them — showed that the masters of the world had no sense 
of the dignity of their nature, whatever they might feel for 
the renown of their country, or the privileges of their order. 
The Spartan youths massacred their Helots, to nurture their 



208 talfourd's miscellaneous -writings. 

valour. Indeed, the barbarities inflicted on that miserable 
race, by those whom we are sometimes taught to admire, 
would exceed belief, if they were not attested by the clearest 
proofs. At Rome, slaves, when too old for work, were often 
sent to an island in the Tiber, and left there to perish. On 
the slightest offence, they were frequently thrown into fish- 
ponds, exposed to wild beasts, or sentenced to die upon the 
cross. And in the same spiiit of contempt for humanity, 
and veneration for the privileged orders, parents had power 
to imprison their children or put them to death, and wives 
were left, without protection, to the brutal ferocity of their 
husbands. 

With how different feelings are the rights of humanity 
regarded in these happier seasons ! Slavery is abolished 
throughout the Christian kingdoms of Europe, and, with few 
exceptions, equal justice is administered to all. There is no 
grief which does not meet with pity, and few miseries which 
do not excite the attempt to relieve them. Men are found 
of sensibilities keen even to agony, who, tremblingly alive 
in every fibre to wretchedness, have yet the moral heroism 
to steel their nerves to the investigation of the most hideous 
details of suffering, with no desire of applause or wish for 
re ward,'except that which success itself will give them. Within 
a few short years, what great moral changes have been ef- 
fected ! The traffic in human beings, which was practised 
without compunction or disgrace, and defended in parliament 
as a fair branch of commerce, is now made a felony, and 
those who are detected in pursuing it would almost be torn 
in pieces by popular fury. The most cruel enactments 
against freedom of thought and of discussion have been 
silently repealed, while scarcely a voice has been raised to 
defend or to mourn them. And, above all, a moral eleva- 
tion has been given to the great mass of the rising gene- 
ration, by the provision for their instruction, of which no 
time, or change, or accident can deprive them. 

There is a deep-rooted opinion, which has been eloquently 
propounded by some of the first critics of our age, that works 
of imagination must necessarily decline as civilization ad- 
vances. It wUl readily be conceded, that no individual minds 
can be expected to arise, in the most refined periods, which 
wiU surpass those which have been developed in rude and 



Wallace's prospects op iwankind, &c. 209 

barbarous ages. But there does not appear any solid rea- 
son for believing, that the mighty works of old time occupy 
the whole region of poetry — or necessarily chill the fancy of 
these later times by their vast and unbroken shadows. Ge- 
nius does not depend on times or on seasons, it waits not on 
external circumstances, it can neither be subdued by the 
violence of the most savage means, nor polished away or 
dissipated among the refinements of the most glittering scenes 
of artificial life. It is " itself alone." To the heart of a 
young poet, the world is ever beginning anew. He is in the 
generation by which he is surrounded, but he is not of it ; 
he can live in the light of the holiest times, or range amidst 
gorgeous marvels of eldest superstition, or sit " lone upon the 
shores of old romance," or pierce the veil of mortality, and 
" breathe in worlds to which the heaven of heavens is but a 
veD." The very deficiency of the romantic, in the actual 
paths of existence, will cause him to dwell in thought more 
apart from them, and to seek the wUdest recesses in those 
regions which imagination opens to his inward gaze. To 
the eye of young joy, the earth is as fresh as at the first — 
the dew-di'op is lit up as it was in Eden — and " the splen- 
dour in the grass, the glory m the flower," yet glitters as in 
the spring-time of the world. 

The subjects in which genius rejoices, are not the vain and 
the transitory, but the true and the eternal, which are the 
same through all changes of society and shifting varieties of 
fashion. The heavens yet " tell the glory of God ;" the hills, 
the vales, and the ocean, do not alter, nor does the heart of 
man wax old. The wonders of these are as exhaustless as 
they are lasting. While these remain, the circumstances of 
busy life — the exact mechanism of the social state — will af- 
fect the true poet but little. The seeds of genius, which con- 
tain within themselves the germs of expanded beauties and 
divinest sublimities, cannot perish. Wheresoever they are 
scattered, they must take root, striking far below the surface, 
overcropped and exhausted by the multitude of transitory 
productions, into a deep richness of soil, and, rising up 
above the weeds and tangled underwood which would crush 
them, lift their innumerable boughs into the free and re- 
joicing heavens. 

The advancement of natural science and of moral truth 



210 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

do not tend really to lessen the resources of the bard. The 
more we know, the more we feel there is yet to be known. 
The mysteries of nature and of humanity are not lessened, 
but increased, by the discoveries of philosophic skill. The 
lustre which breaks on the vast clouds, which encircle us in 
our earthly condition, does not merely set in clear vision 
that which before was hidden in sacred gloom; but, at the 
same time, half exhibits masses of magnificent shadow, un- 
known before, and casts an uncertain light on vast regions, 
in which the imagination may devoutly expatiate. A plas- 
tic superstition may fill a limited circle with beautiful images, 
but it chiUs and confines the fancy, almost as strictly as it 
limits the reasoning faculties. The mythology of Greece, for 
example, while it peopled earth Avith a thousand glorious 
shapes, shut out the fi'ee grace of nature from poetic vision, 
and excluded from the ken the liigh beatings of the soul. 
AU the loveliness of creation, and all the qualities, feelings, 
and passions, were invested with personal attributes. The 
evening's sigh was the breath of Zephyr — the streams were 
celebrated, not in their rural clearness, but as visionary 
nymphs — and ocean, that old agitator of sublimest thoughts, 
gave place, in the imagination, to a trident-bearing god. The 
tragic muse almost " forgot herself to stone," in her lone 
contemplations of destiny. No wild excursiveness of fancy 
marked their lighter poems — no majestical struggle of high 
passions and high actions filled the scene — no genial wisdom 
threw a penetrating, yet lovely, light on the sDent recesses of 
the bosom. The diffusion of a purer faith restored to poetry 
its glowing affections, its far-searching intelligence, and its 
excursive power. And not only this, but it left it free to use 
those exquisite figures, and to avail itself of all the chaste and 
delicate imagery, which the exploded superstition first called 
into being. In the stately regions of imagination, the won- 
ders of Greek fable yet have place, though they no longer 
hide fwm our view the secrets of our nature, or the long 
vistas which extend to the dim verge of the moral horizon. 
Well, indeed, does a great living poet assert their poetic ex- 
istence, under the form of defending the science of the stars : 



" For Fable is Love's world, his home, his birth place ; 
Delightedly dwells he 'inong fays and talismans, 



Wallace's prospects op mankind, &c. 211 

And spirits; and deliglitcdiy believes 

Divinities, being himself divine. 

The intelligible forms of ancient poets, 

The fair humanities of old religion. 

The power, the beauty, and the majesty. 

That bad their haunts in dale or piny mountain, 

Or forest, by slow stream or pebbly spring, 

Or chasms and watery depths I all these have vanish'd, 

They live no longer in the faith of reason! 

But still the heart doth need a language, still 

Doth the old instinct bring back the old names ; 

And to yon starry world they now are gone, 

Spirits or gods, that us'd to share this earth 

With man as with their friend; and to the lover 

Yonder they move, from yonder visible sky 

Shoot influence down; and, even at this day, 

'Tis Jupiter who brings whate'er is great. 

And Venus that brings every thing that's fair!"* 



The poet is the inlieritor of the imaginative treasures of all 
creeds which reason has now exploded. The dim gigantic 
shadows of the north — the gentle superstitions of the Greeks 
— the wild and wondrous prodigies of the Arabian enchant- 
ment — the dark rites of magic, more heart-stirring than all — 
have their places hi the vast region of his soul. When we 
climb above the floating mists which have so long overspread 
humanity, to breathe a purer air, and gaze on the unclouded 
heavens, we do not lose our feeling of veneration for majestic 
errors, nor our sense of their glories. Instead of wandering 
in the region of cloud, we overlook it all, and ^behold its 
gorgeous varieties of arch, minaret, dome, or spire, without 
partaking in its delusions. 

But we have no need of resort to argument, in order to 
show that genius is not gradually declining. A glance at its 
productions, in the present age, will suffice to prove the 
gloomy mistake of desponding criticism. We will sketch 
very lightly over the principal living authors, to illustrate 
this position — satisfied that the mere mention of their names 
wiU awaken, within our readers, recollections of delight, far 
more than sufficient triumphantly to contravene the theoiy 
of those who believe in the degeneracy of genius. 

* Colridge's translation ot Schiller's Wallenstein, 



212 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

And first — in the great walk of poesy — is Wordsworth, 
who, if he stood alone, would vindicate the immortality of 
his art. He has, in his works, built up a rock of defence for 
his species, which will resist the mightiest tides of demora- 
lizing luxury. Setting aside the varied and majestic harmony 
of his verse — the freshness and the grandeur of his descrip- 
tions — the exquisite softness of his delineations of character 
— and the high and rapturous spirit of his choral songs — we 
may produce his " divine philosophy" as unequalled by any 
preceding bard. And surely it is no small proof of the in- 
finity of the resources of genius, that, in this late age of the 
world, the first of all philosophic poets should have arisen, to 
open a new vein of sentiment and thought, deeper and richer 
than yet had been laid bare to mortal eyes. His rural pic- 
tures are as fresh and as lively as those of Cowper, yet how 
much lovelier is the poetic light which is shed over them ! 
His exhibition of gentle peculiarities of character, and dear 
immunities of heart, is as true and as genial as that of Gold- 
smith, yet how much is its interest heightened by its intimate 
connexion, as by golden chords, with the noblest and most 
universal truths ! His little pieces of tranquil beauty are as 
holy and as sweet as those of Collins, and yet, whUe we feel 
the calm of the elder poet gliding into our souls, we catch 
farther glimpses through the luxuriant boughs into "the 
Mghest heaven of invention." His soul mantles as high with 
love and joy, as that of Burns, but yet " how bright, how 
solemn, how serene," is the brimming and lucid stream I 
His poetry not only discovers, within the heart, new faculties, 
but awakens within, its untried powers, to comprehend and 
to enjoy its beauty and its wisdom. 

Not less marvellously gifted, though in a far different man- 
ner, is Coleridge, who, by a strange error, has been Usually 
regarded as belonging to the same school, partaking of the 
same peculiarities, and upholding the same doctrines. In- 
stead, like Wordsworth, of seeking the sources of sublimity 
and of beauty in the simplest elements of humanity, he 
ranges through all history and science, investigating all that 
has really existed, and all that has had foundation only in the 
strangest and wildest minds, combining, condensing, deve- 
loping, and multiplying the rich products of his research with 
marvellous facility and skill; now pondering fondly over 



Wallace's prospects op mankind, &c. 213 

some piece of exquisite loveliness, brought from a wild and 
imknown recess ; now tracing out the hidden germ of the 
eldest and most barbaric theories ; and now calling fantastic 
spirits from the vasty deep, where they have slept since the 
dawn of reason. The term, " myriad-minded," which he has 
happily applied to Shakspeare, is truly descriptive of himself. 
He is not one, but Legion — " rich with the spoils of time," 
richer in his own glorious imagination and sportive fantasy. 
There is nothing more wonderful than the facile majesty of 
his images, or rather of his worlds of imagery, which, even 
in his poetry or his prose, start up before us self raised and 
all perfect, like the palace of Aladdin. He ascends to the 
sublimest truths, by a winding tract of sparkling glory, which 
can only be described in his own language — " 

" the spirits' ladder, 
That from this gross and visible world of dust 
Even to the starry world, with thousand rounds 
Builds itself up; on which the unseen powers 
Move up and down on heavenly ministries — 
The circles in the circles, that approach 
The central sun with ever-narrowing orbit." 

In various beauty of versification, he has never been ex- 
ceeded. Shakspeare, doubtless, has surpassed him in linked 
sweetness and exquisite continuity, and Milton in pure ma- 
jesty and classic grace — but this is in one species of verse 
only — and, taking all his trials of various metres, the swelling 
harmony of his blank verse, the sweet breathing of his gen- 
tler odes, and the sybil-like flutter alternate with the mur- 
muring charm of his wizzard spells, we doubt if even these 
great masters have so fully developed the music of the Eng- 
lish tongue. He has yet completed no adequate memorials 
of his genius ; yet it is most unjust to assert, that he has 
done nothing or little. To refute this assertion, there are, 
his noble translation of Wallen stein— his love-poems of in- 
tensest beauty — his Ancient Mariner, with its touches of 
profoundest tenderness amidst the wildest and most bewO- 
dering terrors — his holy and most sweet tale of Christahel, 
with its rich enchantments and its richer humanities — the 
depths, the sublimities, and the pensive sweetness of his 
tragedy— the heart-dilating sentiments scattered through his 
19 



214 talfourd's miscellaneous avritings. 

" Friend''' — and the stately imagery which breaks upon us 
at every turn of the golden paths of his metaphysical laby- 
rinths. And, if he has a power within mightier than that 
which even these glorious creations mdicate, shall he be 
censured because he has deviated from the ordinaiy com'se 
of the age, in its development ; and, instead of committing 
his imaginative wisdom to the press, has deUvered it from 
his living lips f He has gone about in the true spii'it of an 
old Greek bard, with a noble carelessness of self, giving fit 
utterance to the divine spirit within him. Who that has 
heard can ever forget him — his mild benignity — the un- 
bounded variety of his knowledge — the fast succeeding pro- 
ducts of his imagination — the child-like simplicity with which 
he rises, from the driest and commonest theme, into the widest 
magnificence of thought, pouring on the soul a stream of 
beauty and of wisdom, to mellow and enrich it for ever? 
The seeds of poetiy, which he has thus scattered, will not 
perish. The records of his fame are not in books only, but 
on the fleshly tablets of young hearts, who wDl not suffer it 
to die even in the general ear, however base and unfeeling 
criticism may deride their gratitude ! 

Charles Lamb is as original as either of these, witWn the 
smaller cu'cle which he has chosen. We know not of any 
writer, living or dead, to whom we can fitly liken him. The 
exceeding delicacy of his fancy, the keenness of his percep- 
tions of truth and beauty, the sweetness and the wisdom of 
his humour, and the fine interchange and sportive combina- 
tion of all these, so frequent in his works, are entirely and 
peculiarly his own. As it has been said of Swift, that his 
better genius was his spleen, it may be asserted of Lam.b, that 
his kindliness is his inspiration. With how nice an eye does 
he detect the least liitherto imnoticed indication of goodness, 
and with how true and gentle a touch does he bring it out 
to do good to our natures ! How new and strange do some 
of his more fantastical ebullitions seem, yet how invariably 
do they come home to the very core, and smOe at the heart ! 
He makes the majesties of imagination seem familiar, and 
gives to familiar things a pathetic beauty or a venerable air. 
Instead of finding that every thing in his wiitings is made 
the most of, we always feel that the tide of sentiment and of 
thought is pent in, and that the airy and variegated bubbles 



Wallace's prospects of mankind, d;c. 215 

spring up from a far depth in the placid waters. The loveli- 
ness of his thouglit looks, in the quaintness of his style, like 
a modest beauty, laced-in and attired in a dress of the superb 
fashion of the elder time. His versification is not greatly in- 
ferior to that of Coleridge, and it is, in all its best qualities, 
unlike that of any other poet. His Iieroic couplets are alter- 
nately sweet, terse, and majestical ; and his octo-syllabic 
measures have a freeness and completeness, wliich mark 
them the pure Ionic of verse. 

Barry Cornwall, with the exception of Coleridge, is the 
most genuine poet of love, who has, for a long period, ap- 
peared among us. There is an intense and passionate beauty, 
a depth of affection, in his little dramatic poems, which ap- 
pear even in the affectionate triflings of his gentle characters. 
He illustrates that holiest of human emotions, which, while it 
will twine itself with the frailest twig, or dally with the most 
evanescent shadow of creation, wasting its excess of kindli- 
ness on all around it, is yet able to " look on tempests and 
be never shaken." Love is gently omnipotent in his poems ; 
accident and death itself are but passing clouds, which 
scarcely vex and which cannot harm it. The lover seems 
to breathe out his life in the arms of his mistress, as calmly 
as the infant sinks into its softest slumber. The fair blos- 
soms of his genius, though light and trembling at the breeze, 
spring from a wide, and deep, and robust stock, which will 
sustain far taller branches without being exhausted. In the 
vision, where he sees " the famous Babylon," in his exquisite 
sonnets, and yet more in his Marcian Colonna, has he shown 
a feeling and a power for the elder venerableness of the poetic 
art, which, we are well assured, he is destined successfully to 
develope. 

Some of our readers will, perhaps, wonder, that we have 
thus long delayed the mention of the most popular of the 
living poets. But, though we have no desire to pass them 
by, we must confess, that we do not rest chiefly on them 
our good hope for English genius. Lord Byron's fame has 
arisen, we suspect, almost as much from an instinctive awe 
of his nobUity, and from a curiosity to know the secrets of 
his diseased soul, which he so often partially gratifies, as from 
the strength and turbid majesty of his productions. His 
mind is, however,, doubtless cast in no ordinary mouldl His 



216 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

chief poetic attributes appear, to lis, to be an exceedingly 
quick sensibility to external beauty and gi'andeur, a capa- 
bilitj' and a love of ^iolent emotion, and a singular mastery 
of language. He has no power over Mmself, Avhich is the 
highest of aU qualifications for a poet as it is for a man. He 
has no calm meditative greatness, no hannonizing spirit, no 
pure sense of love and of joy. He is as far beneath the 
calmly imaginative poets, as the region of tempests and 
storms is below the quiet and miclouded heavens. He ex- 
cites intense feeling, by leading Ws readers to the blink of 
unimaginable horror, by dark hints of nameless sins, or by 
the strange union of vuiues and of vices, which God and 
nature have for ever di^ided. Yet are there touches of 
grace and beauty scattered throughout his works, occasional 
bursts of redeeming enthusiasm, wliich make us deeply re- 
gi'et the too-often " admired disorder" of his soul. The stream 
of his genius falls, fi-om a vast height, amidst bleakest rocks, 
into depths, which mortal eye cannot fathom, and into which 
it is dangerous to gaze ; but it sends up a radiant mist in its 
fall, which the sim tints with heavenly colouring, and it 
leaves its echoes on the golden and quiet clouds ! The too 
frequent perversion of his genius does not prevent it from 
showing, in its degree, the immortality of the most sublime 
of the human feculties. 

Sir Walter Scott, if liis poetiy is not all which his countiy- 
men proclaim it, is a bard, in whose success every good man 
must rejoice. His feeling of nature is true, if it is not pro- 
foimd ; his himianity is piu'e, if it is not deep ; his knowledge 
of facts is choice and various, if his insight into their philo- 
sophy is not very clear or extensive. Dr. Percy's Feliqi/es 
prepared his way, and the unpublished Christ abel aided his 
inspirations ; but he is entitled to the credit of having first 
brought romantic poetry into fashion. Instead of the WTctched 
sentunentalities of the Delia Cruscan school, he supplied the 
public with pictures of nature, and with fak visions of chi- 
vahy. If he is, and we hope as well as believe that he is, 
the author of the marvellous succession of Scotch romances, 
he deserves far deeper sentiments of gi^atitude than those 
which his poems awaken. Then does he merit the praise 
of Jiavtng sent the moimtain breezes into the heait of this 
gi'eat nation ; of having supplied us all with a glorious crowd 



Wallace's prospects of mankind, &c. 217 

of acquaintance, and even of friends, whose society ynU. never 
disturb or weary us ; and of liaving made us glow a thousand 
times with honest pride, in that nature of which we are par- 
takers ! 

Mr. Southey is an original poet, and a deliglitfiil prose- 
writer, tliough he does not even belong to the class which it 
lias been the fasliion to represent him as redeeming. He 
lias neither the intensity of Wordsworth, nor the glorious ex- 
pansion of Coleridge ; but he has their holiness of imagina- 
tion, and child-like purity of thought. His fancies are often 
as sweet and as heavenly, as those which " may make a 
crysome child to smile." There is, too, sometimes an infan- 
tine love of glitter and pomp, and of airy castle-building, dis- 
played in his more fantastical writings. The great defect of 
Ms pm"est and loftiest poems is, that they are not imbued with 
humanity ; they do not seem to have their only home on 
'• tMs dear spot, tliis human earth of oiu's," but their scenes 
might be transferred, perhaps with advantage, to the moon 
or one of the planets. Li the loneliest bower whicli poesy 
can rear, deep in a trackless ^vild, or in some island, placed 
" far amid the melancholy main," the air of this world must 
yet be allowed to breatlie, if the poet would interest " us 
poor humans." It may heighten even the daintiest solitude 
of blessed lovers, 

" All the white to feel and know. 
That they are in a world of wo, 
On such an earth as this." 

Mr. Southey's poems are beautiful and piu-e, yet too far 
from our common emotions. His Joan of Arc, his Thalaba, 
and his Roderick, are full of the stateliest pictures. But his 
Kehama is his greatest work — the most marvellous succes- 
sion of fantasies, " sky tinctured," ever called into being, 
A\-ithout the aid of real and hearty faith ! Mr. Southey's 
prose style is singularly lucid and simple. His life of Nelson 
is a ti'uly British work, giving the real heartuiess of naval 
strength of our coimtry, without ostentation or cant ; his me- 
moir of Kirke "White is very unaffected and pathetic ; and his 
Essays on the State of the Poor, really touching in their bene- 
volence, and their weU regulated sympathies. Of the vio- 
lences of liis more decidedly political effusions, we shall not 

19* 



218 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

here ventiu-e to give an opinion ; except to express our firm 
belief, tliat tliey have never been influenced by motives un- 
wortliy of a man of genius. 

Ml'. Campbell has not done much M^hich is excellent in 
poetiy, but that which he has written well is admirable in its 
kind. His battle-odes are simple, affecting, and sublime. — 
Few passages can exceed the dying speech of Gertrude, in 
sweet pathos, or the war-song of old Outalissi, in stern and 
ferocious grandeur. It is astonishing, that he, who could pro- 
duce these and other pieces of most genuine poetry, should, on 
some occasions, egregiously mistake gaudy words for imagi- 
nation ; and heap up fragments of bad metaphors, as though 
he could scale the " highest heaven of invention," by the ac- 
cumulation of mere earthly materials. 

It is the singular lot of Moore, to seem in his smaller 
pieces, as though he were fitted for the highest walk of poe- 
try ; and, in his more ambitious efforts, to appear as though 
he could fabricate nothing but glittering tinsel. The truth is, 
howevei', that those of his attempts, which the world thinks 
the boldest, and in which we regard him as unsuccessfiil, are 
not above but beneath his powers. A thousand tales of 
veiled prophets, who wed ladies in the abodes of the dead, 
and frighten their associates to death by their maimed and 
mangled countenances, may be produced ^vith far less ex- 
pense of true imagination, fanc)'', or feeling, than one sweet 
song, which shall seem the very echo " of summer days and 
delightful years." Moore is not fit for the composition of 
tales of demon frenzy and feverish strength, only because his 
genius is of too pure and noble an essence. He is the most 
sparkling and graceful of triflers. It signifies little, whether 
the Fives Court or the Palace furnish him with materials. 
However repulsive the subject, he can " turn all to favour, 
and to prettiness." Clay and gold, subjected to his easy in- 
imitable hand, are wrought into shapes, so pleasingly fantas- 
tic, that the difference of the subject is lost in the fineness of 
the workmanship. His lighter pieces are distinguished at 
once by deep feeling, and a gay festive air, which he never 
entirely loses. He leads wit, sentiment, patriotism, and 
fancy, in a gay fantastic round, gambols sportively with fate, 
and holds a dazzling fence with care and with sorrow. He 
has seized all the " snatches of old tunes," which yet lingered 



Wallace's prospects of mankind, &c. 219 

about the wildest regions of his wild and fanciful country ; 
and has fitted to them words of accordance, the most exqui- 
site. Tliere is a luxury in his grief, and a sweet melancholy 
in his joj'-, which are old and well remembered in our expe- 
rience, though scarcely ever before thus nicely revived in 
poetry. 

The works of Crabbe are fuU of good sense, condensed 
thought, and lively picture; yet the greater part of them is 
almost the converse of poetry. The mirror which he holds 
up to nature, is not that of imagination, which softens down 
the asperities of actual existences, brings out the stately and 
the beautiful, while it leaves the trivial and the low in sha- 
dow, and sets all things which it reflects in harmcjny before 
us : on the contrary, it exhibits the details of the coarsest 
and most unpleasing realities, with microscopic accuracy and 
minuteness. Some of his subjects are, in themselves, worth- 
less — others are absolutely revolting — yet it is impossilMe to 
avoid admiring the strange nicety of touch with which he 
has felt their discordances, and the ingenuity with which he 
has painted them. His likenesses absolutely startle us. — 
There are cases in which this intense consciousness of little 
circumstances is prompted by deep passion ; and, whenever 
Mr. Crabbe seizes one of these, his extreme minuteness rivets 
and enchants us. The effect of this vivid picturing in one 
of his tales, where a husband relates to his wife the story of 
her own intrigue before marriage, as a tale of another, is 
thrilling and grand. In some of his poems, as his .Sir Eustace 
Greif and the Gi/)si/-ii-n)iian^!i Cmfr.isinn, he has shown 
that he can wield the mightiest passions with ease, when he 
chooses to rise from the contemplation of the individual to 
that of the universal ; from the delineation of men and things, 
to that of man and the universe. 

We dissent from many of Leigh Hunt's principles of mo- 
rality and of taste ; but we caimot suffer any difference of 
opinion to prevent the avowal of our deep sense of his poeti- 
cal genius. He is a poet of various and sparkling fancy, of 
real affectionate heartiness, and of pathos as deep and pure 
as that of any living writer. He unites an English homeli- 
ness, with the richest Italian luxury. The story of Rimini 
is one of the most touching, which we have ever received 
into our " heart of hearts." The crispness of the descriptive 



220 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

passages, the fine spirit of gallantry in the chivalrous delinea- 
tions, the exquisite gradations of the fatal affection and the 
mild heart-breaking remorse of the heroine ; form, altogether, 
a body of sweetly-bitter recollections, for which none but the 
most heartless of critics would be unthankful. The fidelity 
and spirit of his little translations are surprising. Nor must 
we forget his prose works ; — the wonderful power, with which 
he has for many years sent forth weekly essays, of great ori- 
ginality, both of substance and expression ; and which seem 
now as fresh and unexhausted as ever. We have nothing 
here to do with his religion or his politics ; — but, it is impos- 
sible to help admiring the healthful impulses, which he has so 
long been breathing " into the torpid breast of daily life ;" or 
the plain and manly energy, with which he has shaken the 
selfism of the age, and sent the claims of the wretched in full 
and resistless force to the bosoms of the proud, or the thought- 
less. In some of liis productions — especially in several num- 
bers of the Indicator — he has revived some of those lost 
parts of our old experience, which we had else wholly for- 
gotten ; and has given a fi"esh sacredness to our daOy walks 
and ordinary habits. We do not see any occasion in this 
for terms of reproach or ridicule. The scenery around Lon- 
don is not the finest in the world ; but it is all which an im- 
mense multitude can see of nature, and surely it is no less 
worthy an aim to hallow a spot which thousands may visit, 
than to expatiate on the charms of some dainty solitude, 
which can be enjoyed only by an occasional traveller. 

There are other living poets, some of them of great ex- 
cellence, on whose merits we should be happy to dwell, but 
that time and space would fail us. We might expatiate on 
the heaven-breathing pensiveness of Montgomery — on the 
elegant reminiscences of Rogers — on the gentle eccentricity 
of Wilson — on the luxurious melancholy of Bowles — or on 
the soft beauties of Ettrick Shepherd. The works of Lloyd 
are rich in materials of reflection — most intense, yet most 
gentle — most melancholy, yet most full of kindness — most 
original in philosophic thought, yet most calm and benignant 
towards the errors of the world. Reynolds has given de- 
lightful indications of a free, and happy, and bounteous spirit, 
fit to sing of merry out-laws and green- wood revekies, which 
we trust he will suffer to refi-esh us Avith its blithe carollings. 



Wallace's prospects of mankind, &c- 221 

Keats, whose Endymion was so cruelly treated by the critics, 
has just put forth a volume of poems which must effectually 
silence his deriders. The rich romance of his Lamia — the 
holy beauty of his St. Agnes'' Eve — the pure and sunple dic- 
tion and intense feeling of his Isabella — and the rough sub- 
limity of his Hyperion — cannot be laughed down, though all 
the periodical critics in England and Scotland were to assail 
them with their sneers. Shelley, too, notwithstanding the 
odious subject of his last tragedy, evinced in that strange 
work a real human power, of which there is little trace among 
the old allegories and metaphysical splendours of his earlier 
productions. No one can fail to perceive, that there are 
mighty elements in his genius, although there is a melan- 
choly w^ant of a presiding power — a central harmony — in his 
soul. Indeed, rich as the present age is in poetry, it is even 
richer in promise. There are many minds — among which 
we may, particularly, mention that of Maturin — which are 
yet disturbed even by the number of their own incomplete 
}3erceptions. These, however, will doubtless fulfill their glo- 
rious destiny, as their imaginations settle into that calm lucid- 
ness, which in the instance of Keats has so rapidly succeeded 
to turbid and impetuous confusion. 

The dramatic literature of the present age does not hold 
a rank proportioned to its poetical genius. But our tragedy, 
at least, is superior to any which has been produced since 
the rich period of Elizabeth and of .Tames. Though the 
dramatic works of Shiel, Maturin, Coleridge, and Milman, 
are not so grand, and harmonious, and impressive, as the 
talent of their authors wotild lead us to desire, they are far 
superior to the tragedies of Hill, Southern, Murphy, Johnson, 
Philipps, Thomson, Young, Addison, or Rowe. Otway's 
Venice Preserved alone — and that only in the stucture of its 
plot — is superior to the Remorse, to Bertrarn, Fazio, or 
Evadne. And then — more pure, mor« dramatic, more gen- 
tle, than all these, is the tragedy of Virginius — a piece of 
simple yet beautiful humanity — in which the most exquisite 
succession of classic groups is animated with young life and 
connected by the finest links of interest — and the sweetest of 
Roman stories lives before us at once, new and familiar to 
our bosoms. 

We shall not be suspected of any undue partiality to- 



Z'ZZ TALFOURD S MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS. 

wards modern criticism. But its talent shows, perhaps, 
more decidedly than any thing else, the great start which 
the human mind has taken of late years. Throughout all 
the periodical works extant, from the Edinhurgh Review 
down to the lowest of the Magazines, striking indications 
may be perceived of '• that something far more deeply inter- 
fused," which is now working in the literature of Elngland. 
We not rarely see criticisms on theatrical performances of 
the preceding evening m the daily newspapers, which would 
put to shame the elaborate observations of Dr. Johnson on 
Shakspeare. Mr. Hazlitt — incomparably the most original 
of the regular ciitics — has almost raised criticism into an in- 
dependent art, and, while analyzing the merits of others, has 
disclosed stores of sentiment, thought, and fancy, which are 
his own peculiar property. His relish for the excellencies 
of those whom he eulogizes, is so keen, that, in his delinea- 
tions, the pleasures of intellect become almost as vivid and 
substantial as those of sense. He introduces us into the 
very presence of the great of old time, and enables us al- 
most to imagine that we hear them utter the living words 
of beauty and wisdom. He makes us companions of their 
happiest hours, and share not only in the pleasures which 
they diffused, but in those which they tasted. He discloses 
to us the hidden soul of beauty, not like an anatomist but 
like a lover. His criticisms, instead of breaking the sweet- 
est enchantments of life, prolongs them, and teaches us to 
love poetic excellence more intensely, as well as more 
"wdsely. 

The present age is, also, honourably distinguished by the 
variety and the excellence of productions from the pen of 
women. In poetry — there is the deep passion, richly tinged 
"v\ith fancy, of Baillie — the delicate romance of Mitford — the 
gentle beauty and feminine chivaliy of Beetham — and the 
classic elegance of Hemans. There is a greater abimdance 
of female talent among the novelists. The exquisite sar- 
casm of humom' of Madame D'Arblay — the soft and roman- 
tic charm of the novels of the Porters — the brilliant ease 
and admirable good sense of Edgeworth — the intense hu- 
manity of Inchbald — the profoimd insight into the fearful 
depths of the soul with which the author of Glenarvon is 
gifted — the heart-rending pathos of Opie — and the gentle 



Wallace's prospects op mankind, &c. 223 

wisdom, the holy sympathy with the holiest childhood, and 
the sweet imaginings, of the author of Mrs. Leicester's 
School — soften and brighten the literary aspect of the age. 
These indications of female talent are not only delightful in 
themselves, but inestimable as proofs of the rich intellectual 
treasures which are diffused throughout the sex, to whom 
the next generation will owe their first and their most sacred 
impressions. 

But, after all, the best intellectual sign of the present 
times is the general education of the poor. This ensures 
duration to the principles of good, by whatever political 
changes the frame of society may be shaken. The sense 
of human rights and of human duties is not now confined to a 
few, and, therefore, liable to be lost, but is stamped in living 
characters on millions of hearts. And the foundations of 
human improvement thus secured, it has a tendency to ad- 
vance in a true geometrical progression. Mean while, the 
effects of the spirit of improvement which have long been 
silently preparing in different portions of the globe, are be- 
coming brilliantly manifest. The vast continent of South 
America, whether it continue nominally dependent on Euro- 
pean states, or retain its own newly-asserted freedom, will teem 
with new intellect, enterprize, and energy. Old Spain, long 
sunk into the most abject degradation, has suddenly awaken- 
ed, as if refreshed from slumber, and her old genius must 
revive with her old dignities. A bloodless revolution has 
just given liberty to Naples, and thus has opened the way 
for the restoration of Italy. That beautiful region again 
will soon inspire her bards with richer strains than of yore, 
and diffuse throughout the world a purer luxury. Amidst 
these quickenings of humanity, individual poets, indeed, must 
lose that personal importance which in darker periods would 
be their portion. All selfism — all predominant desire for 
the building up of individual fame — must give way to the 
earnest and single wish to share in, and promote, the gene- 
ral progress of the species. He is imworthy of the name of 
a great poet, who is not contented that the loveliest of his 
imaginations should be lost in the general light, or viewed 
only as the soft and delicate streaks which shall usher in that 
glorious dawn, which is, we believe, about to rise on the 
world, and to set no more ! 



224 talfourd's miscbixaseocs writings. 



ON PULPIT ORATORY. 

VrrH REMARKS OX THE REVERESD ROBERT HAIX. 

[London Magazine.] 

The dtx^line of eloquence in the Senate and at the Bar is 
xio matter ot" surprise. In the freshness of its youth, it was 
the only nieiliuni by which the knowkxlgv and ejiergy of a 
single heart could be cvMuraumcatetl to thousiuids. It sup- 
plitxl the place, not only of the press, but of that genenvl coin- 
nwnication between tlie ditieront classes of the state, which 
the inteivowses of nuxlern six^iety supjily. Then the jxis- 
sions of men, unchilUxi by the friiiid custi.vms of later days, 
left them o^x-'n to be iuilamtxl or enraptur^xi by the btu'sts of 
an entlmsiasm, which would now be met only with sv^-orn. 
In om- courts of law otx^asions nnvly arise for auiiuattxl ad- 
divsst^ to the heait ; and even when these ixx-ur. the bcu'rister 
is fcntertxl by tei^hnical rules, and yet moiv by the ttvhnical 
habits and teelings, of those by whom he is enciivlevl. A 
coanixn-atively small degnx^ of tiu\cy, mid a glow of social 
teeling. dinxHed by a tact which will enable a man to yffo- 
ceeti with a constant apix^arance of iliivcting his com'se 
witlun legal coivtines, are now the bt^st qualitications of a 
forensic orator. They weiv exhibited by Loixl Ei-skine in 
the highest jx^rftx-tion, and attendtxl with the most splendid 
suctx'ss. Had he btx^n giTater thmi he was, he had been 
nothing. He CA-er seemetl to cherish an atiW"tii>n for the 
te^'huiciilities of his art, which woit the contidence of his 
duller associates. He appeaitxl to lean on these as his stays 
and ivsting-places, even when he ventmtxi to kx^k into the 
depth of huniiui natin-e, or to catch a momentary gUinjise of 



ON PULPIT ORATORY. 225 

the regions of fantasy. When these were taken from him, 
Jiis powers fascinated no longer. He was exactly adapted to 
tlie sphere of a court of law — above his fellows, but not be- 
yond their gage — and giving to the forms wiiich he could 
not forsake, an air of vcnerableness and grandeur. Any 
thing more full of beauty and wisdom tiian his sjieeches, 
would be li(>ard only with cold and bitter scorn in an Eng- 
lish (;ourt of justice. In tiio houses of parliament, mightier 
questions are debated ; but no speaker hoj)os to influence the 
decision. Indeed the members of opposition scarcely pre- 
tend to struggle against the " dead elcxiuence of votes," 
but speak with a view to an infhuMice on the public mind, 
which is a remote and chilling aim. Were it otherwise, the 
academic education of the members — the prevalent disposi- 
tion to ridicule, rather, that to admire — and the sensitiveness 
whicli resents a burst of enthusiasm as an offence against 
the decorum of polished society — would effectually repress 
any attempt to display an eloquence in which intense pas- 
sion should impel the imagination, and noble sentiment should 
be steeped in fancy. The orations delivered on charitable 
occasions, — consisting, with few exceptions, of poor con- 
ceits, miserai)lc compliments, and hacknoy(>d metai)hors, — 
are scarcely worthy of a transient allusion. 

But the causes which have opposed the excellence of pul- 
pit oratory in modern times, are not so obvious. Its subjects 
have never varied, from the day when the Holy Spirit visibly 
descended on the first advocates of the Gospel, in tongues of 
lire. They are in no danger of being exhausted by fre- 
quency, or changed with the vi(;issitudes of mortal fortune. 
They have immediate relation to that eternity, the idea of 
which is the living soul of all poetry and art. It is the pro- 
vince of the preachers of Christianity todevelope the cormex- 
ion between this world and the next — to watch over the be- 
ginnings of a course which will endure for ever — and to trace 
the broad shadows cast from imperishable realities on the 
shifting scenery of earth. This .sublunary sphere does not 
seem to them as trifling or mean, in proportion as they ex- 
tend their views onward ; but assimies a new grandeur and 
sanctity, as the vestibule of a statelier and an eternal region. 
The mysteries of our being — life and death — both in their 
strange essences, and in their sublimer relations, are topics of 
20 



226 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

their ministry. There is nothing affecting in tlie human con- 
dition, nothing majestic in the affections, nothing touching in 
the instability of himian dignities, — the fi-agility of loveliness, 
— or the heroism of self-saciifice — which is not a theme suited 
to their liigh pmposes. It is theirs to dwell on the eldest his- 
tory of the w^orld — on the beautiful simplicities of the patri- 
archal age — on the stern and awful religion, and marvellous 
story of the Hebrews — on tlie glorious visions of the pro- 
phets, and theii- fulfillment — on the character, miracles, and 
death of the Sa\iour — on all the wonders, and all the beauty 
of the Scriptures. It is theu"s to trace the spiiit of the bound- 
less and the eternal, faintly breathing in eveiy part of the 
mystic cu'cle of superstition, unquenched even amidst tlie 
most barbarous rites of savage tribes, and all the cold and 
beautiful shapes of Grecian mould. The inward soul of every 
religious system — the philosophical spirit of all history — the 
deep secrets of the human heait, when gi-andest or most 
wayward — are theirs to seai'ch and to develope. Even those 
speculations which do not immediately affect man's conduct 
and his hopes are theirs, with all their high casuistry ; for in 
these, at least, they discern the beatings of the soiil against 
the bars of its earthly tabernacle, which prove the immor- 
tality of its essence, and its destiny to move in fi'eedom 
through the vast etherial circle to which it thus vainly aspires. 
In all the intensities of feeling, and all the regalities of imagi- 
nation, they may find fitting materials for their passionate 
expostulations with their fellow men to tmii their hearts to 
those objects which will endure for ever. 

It appears, therefore, at fii'st obsen^ation, strange, that in 
tliis country, where an irreligious spirit has never become 
general, the oratoiy of the pulpit has made so little progi'ess. 
The ministers of the Established Church have not, on the 
whole, fulfilled the promise given in the days of its early zeal. 
The noble enthusiasm of Hooker — the pregnant ^vit of Soutli 
— the genial and tolerant warmth of TOotson — the vast 
power of reasoning and observation of Barrow — have rarely 
been copied, even feebly, by their successors. Jeremy Tay- 
lor stands altogether alone among churchmen. Who has 
ever manifested any portion of that exquisite intermixtm'e of 
a yearning love with a heavenly fancy, which enabled him to 
embody and render palpable the holy charities of his reli- 



ON PULPIT ORATORY. 227 

gion in the loveliest and most delicate images ? Who has 
ever so encrusted his subjects with candied words ; or has 
seemed, like him, to take away the sting of death v/ith " rich 
conceit ;" or has, like him, half persuaded his hearers to be- 
lieve that they heard the voice of pitymg angels 1 Few, in- 
deed, of the ministers of the church have been endued with 
the divine imagination which might combine, enlarge, and 
vivify the objects of sense, so as, by stately pictures, to pre- 
sent us with symbols of tliat uncreated beauty and grandeur 
in which hereafter we shall expatiate. Tiie most celebrated 
of them have been little more than students of vast learning 
and research, unless, with Warburton and Horseley, they 
have aspired at once boldly to speculate, and imperiously to 
dogmatize. 

It cannot be doubted, that the species of jiatronage, by 
which the honours and emoluments of the Establishment are 
distributed, has tended to prevent the development of genius 
within its pale. But, perhaps, we may find a more ade- 
quate cause for the low state of its preaching in the very 
beauty and impressiveness of its rites and appointed services. 
The tendency of religious ceremonies, of the I'ccurrence of 
old festivals, and of a solemn and dignified form of worship, 
is, doubtless, to keep alive tender associations in the heart, 
and to preserve the flame of devotion steady and pure, but 
not to incite men to look abroad into their nature, or to 
prompt any lofty excursions of religious fancy. There have, 
doubtless, been eloquent preachers hi the church of Rome, — 
because in her communion the ceremonies themselves are 
august and fearful, and because her proselyting zeal inspired 
her sons with peculiar energy. But episcojiacy in England 
is by far the most tolerant of systems ever associated with 
worldly power. Its ministers, until the claim of some of them, 
to the exclusive title of evangelical, ci^ated dissensions, 
breathed almost uniformly a spirit of mildness and peace. 
Within its sacred boundaries, all was order, repose, and 
charity. Its rites and observances were the helps and lean- 
ing-places of the soul, on which it delighted to rest amidst the 
vicissitudes of the world, and in its approach to its final 
change. The fulness, the majesty, and the dignified benigni« 
ties of the Liturgy sunk deep into the heart, and prevented 
the devout worshipper from feeling the want of strength or 



228 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

variety in the discom-ses of the preacher. The church-yard, 
with its gentle risings, and pensive memorials of affection, 
was a silent teacher, both of vigilance and love. And the 
village spire, whose " silent finger points to heaven," has sup- 
plied the place of loftiest imaginings of celestial glory. 

Obstacles of a far different kind long prev^ented the ad- 
vancement of pulpit eloquence among the Protestant Dissen- 
ters. The ministers first ejected for non-conformity were 
men of rigid honesty and virtue, — but their intellectual sphere 
was little extended beyond that of their fellows. There can- 
not be a greater mistake than to suppose that they sacrificed 
their worldly interest from any regard to the principles of 
free inquiry, which have since almost become axioms. They 
believed that their compliance with the requisitions of the 
monarch, would be offensive to God, and that in refusing to 
yield it they were doing his will ; but they were prepared in 
their turn to assume the right of interpreting the Bible for 
others, and of condemning them for a more extended appli- 
cation of their example. Harassed, ridicviled, and afflicted, 
they naturally contracted an air of rigidity, and refused in 
their turn, with horror, an extensive sympathy with the world. 
The controversies in which the learned men among the Dis- 
senters were long occupied, having respect, not to grand and 
universal principles, but to petty questions of ceremony and 
minor points of faith, tended yet farther to confine and de- 
press theii" genius. Their families were not the less scenes 
of love, because they preserved parental authority m its state ; 
but the austerity of their manner tended to repress the ima- 
ginative faculties of the young. If they indulged themselves 
in any relaxation of manner, it was not with flowing elo- 
quence, but with the quaint conceit and grave jest that they 
garnished their conversation or their discourses. Their re- 
ligion wore a dark and uncouth garb ; but to this we are 
indebted, in no small degree, for its preservation through 
times of demoralizing luxury. 

A great change has taken place, of late years, in the lite- 
rature and eloquence of Protestant Dissenters. As they 
ceased to be objects of persecution or of scorn, they insensi- 
bly lost the austerity and exclusiveness of their character. 
They descended from their dusty retirements to share in the 
pursuits and innocent enjoyments of "this bright and breath- 



ON PULPIT ORATORY. 229 

ing world." Their honest bigotries gave way at the warm 
touch of social intercourse with those from whom they dis- 
sented. Meanwhile, the exertions of Whitfield, — his glow- 
ing, passionate, and awful eloquence; — ^his daring and 
quenchless enthusiasm, — and the deep and extensive impres- 
sion which he made throughout the kingdom, necessarily 
aroused those, who received his essential doctrines, into new 
zeal. The impulse thus given was happily refined by a taste 
for classical learning, and for the arts and embellishments of 
life, which was then gradually insinuating itself into their 
churches. Some of the new converts who forsook the esta- 
blishment, not from repugnance to its constitution, but to its 
preachers, maintained, m the first eagerness of their faith, 
the barbarous notion that human knowledge was useless, 
and even dangerous, to the Christian minister. The absurd- 
ity of this position, however .strikingly exemplified in the 
advantages gained by the enemies of those who acted on it, 
served only to increase the desire of the more enlightened 
and liberal among the non-conformists to emulate the church 
in the intellectual qualification of their preachers. They 
speedily enlarged the means of education among them for 
the sacred office, and encouraged those habits of study, 
which promote a refinement and delicacy of feeling in the 
minds which they enlighten. Mean while, their active par- 
ticipation in the noblest schemes of benevolence tended yet 
farther to expand tlieir moral horizon. Youths were found 
among them prepared to sacrifice all the enjoyments of 
civilized life, and at the peril of their lives to traverse the 
remotest and the wildest regions, that they might diffuse that 
religion wliich is every where the parent of arts, charities, 
and peace. It is not the least benefit of their Missionary ex- 
ertions, that they have given a romantic tinge to the feelings 
of men " in populous city pent," and engrossed with the petty 
and distracting cares of commerce. These form the true 
Evangelical chivalry, supplying to their promoters no small 
measure of that mental refinement and elevation, which the 
far less noble endeavours to recover the holy Sepulchre shed 
on Europe in the middle ages. It is not easy to estimate the 
advantages which spring from the extension of the imagina- 
tion into the grandest regions of the earth, and from the ex- 
citement of sympathies for the condition of the most distant 
20* 



230 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

and degraded of the species. The merchant, whose thoughts 
would else rarely travel beyond his desk and his fire-side, is 
thus busied with high musings on the progress of the Gospel 
in the deserts of Africa — skims with the lonely bark over 
tropical seas — and sends his wishes and his prayers over 
deserts which human footstep has rarely trodden. Mis- 
sionary zeal thus diffused among the people, has necessarily 
operated yet more strongly on the minds of the ministers, 
who have leisure to indulge in these delicious dreamings 
which such a cause may sanction. These excellent men 
are now, for the most part, not only the instructors, but the 
ornaments of the cii'cles in which they move. The time 
which they are able to give to literature is well employed for 
the benefit of their flocks. In the country, more especially, 
their gentle manners, their extended information, and their 
pure and blameless lives, do incalculable good to the hearts 
of their ruder hearers, independent of their public services. 
Not only in the more solemn of their duties, — in admonishing 
the guilty, comforting the afflicted, and cheering the dying — 
do they bless those around them ; but by their demeanour, 
usually dignified, yet cheerful, and their conversation de- 
corous, yet lively ; they raise incalculably the tone of social 
intercourse, and heighten the innocent enjoyment of their 
friends. Some of them are, at the present day, exhibiting 
no ordinary gifts and energies ; — and to the most distinguished 
of these, we propose to direct the attention of our readers. 

Mr. Hall, though perhaps the most distinguished orna- 
ment of the Calvinistic* Dissenters, does not afford the best 
opportunity for criticism. His excellence does not consist in 
the predominance of one of his powers, but in the exquisite 
proportion and harmony of all. The richness, variety, and 
extent of his knowledge, are not so remarkable as his abso- 
lute mastery over it. He moves about in the loftiest sphere 
of contemplation, as though he were " native and endued to 
its element." He uses the finest classical allusions, the no- 
blest images, and the most exquisite words, as though they 

* We use this epithet merely as that which will most distinc- 
tively characterize the extensive class to which it is applied — well 
aware that there are shades of difference among; them — and that 
inany of them would decline to call themselves after any name but 
that of Christ. 



ON PULPIT ORATORY". 231 

were those which came first to his mind, and which formed 
his natural dialect. There is not the least appearance of 
straining after greatness in his most magnificent excursions, 
but he rises to the loftiest heights with a child-like ease. His 
style is one of the clearest and simplest — the least encumbered 
with its own beauty — of any which ever has been written. 
It is bright and lucid as a mirror, and its most highly-wrought 
and sparkling embellishments are like ornaments of crystal, 
which, even in their brilliant inequalities of surface, give back 
to the eye little pieces of true imagery set before them. 

The works of this great preacher are, in the highest sense 
of the term, imaginative, as distinguished not only from the 
didactic, but from the fanciful. He possesses " the vision and 
tlie faculty divine," in as high a degree as any of our writers 
in prose. His noblest passages do but make truth visible in 
the form of beauty, and " clothe upon" abstract ideas, till they 
become palpable in exquisite shapes. The dullest writer would 
not convey the same meaning in so few words, as he has 
done in the most sublime of his illustrations. Imagination, 
when like his of the purest water, is so far from being im- 
properly employed on divine subjects, that it only finds its 
real objects in the true and the eternal. This power it is 
which disdains tlie scattered elements of beauty, as they ap- 
pear distinctly in an imperfect world, and strives by accumu- 
lation, and by rejecting the alloy cast on all things, to embody 
to the mind that ideal beauty whicli shall be realized here- 
after. This, by shedding a consecrating light on all it touches, 
and " bringing them into one," cinticipates the future harmony 
of creation. This already sees the "soul of goodness in 
things evil," which shall one day change the evil into its like- 
ness. This already begins the triumph over the separating 
powers of death and time, and renders their victory doubtful, 
by making us feel the immortality of the affections. Such is 
the faculty which is employed by Mr. Hall to its noblest uses. 
There is no rhetorical flourish — no mere pomp of words — 
in his most eloquent discourses. With vast excursive power, 
indeed, he can range through all the glories of the Pagan 
world, and seizing those traits of beauty, which they derived 
from primeval revelation, restore them to the system of truth. 
But he is ever best when he is intensest — when he unveils 
the mighty foundations of the rock of ages — or makes the 



232 talfourd's miscellaneous avritings. 

hearts of his hearers vibrate with a strange joy which they 
will recognise in more exalted stages of their being. 

Mr. Hall has, unfortunately, committed but few of his dis- 
courses to the press. His Sermon on the tendencies of 
Modern Infidelity, is one of the noblest specimens of his genius. 
Nothing can be more fearfully sublime, than the picture 
which he gives of the desolate state, to which Atheism would 
reduce the world ; or more beautiful and triumphant, than 
his vindication of the social aflFections. His Sermon on the 
Death of Princess Charlotte, contains a pMlosophical and 
eloquent development of the causes which make the sorrows 
of those who are encircled by the brighest appearances of hap- 
piness, peculiarly affecting ; and gives an exquisite picture of 
the gentle victun adorned with sacrificial glories. His dis- 
courses on War — on the Discouragements and Supports of 
the Christian Ministry — and on the Work of the Holy Spirit 
— are of gi-eat and various excellence. But, as our limits 
will allow only a single extract, we prefer giving the close of 
a Sermon preached in the prospect of the invasion of England 
by Napoleon, in which he blends the finest remembrance of 
the antique world — the dearest associations of British pa- 
triotism — and the pure spirit of the Gospel — in a strain as 
noble as could have been poured out by Tyrtaeus. 

"To form an adequate idea of the duties of this crisis, it will 
be necessary to raise your minds to a level with your station, 
to extend your views to a distant futurity and to conse- 
quences the most certain, though most remote. By a series 
of criminal enterprizes, by the successes of guilty ambition, 
the liberties of Europe have been gradually extinguished : 
the subjugation of Holland, Switzerland, and the free towns 
of Germany, has completed that catastrophe : and we are 
the only people in the eastern hemisphere who are in pos- 
session of equal laws, and a free constitution. Freedom, 
driven from every spot on the continent, has sought an asy- 
lum in a country which she always chose for her favourite 
abode : but she is pursued even here, and threatened with 
destruction. The inundation of lawless power, after cover- 
ing the whole earth, threatens to follow us here ; and we 
are most exactly, most critically placed in the only aperture 
where it can be successfully repelled, in the Thermopylae of 



ON PULPIT ORATORY. 233 

the universe. As far as the interests of freedom are con- 
cerned, the most important by far of sublunary interests, 
you, my countrymen, stand in the capacity of the federal re- 
presentatives of the human race ; for with you it is to deter- 
mine (under God) in what condition the latest posterity shall 
be bom ; their fortunes are entrusted to your care, and on 
your conduct at this moment depends the colour and com- 
plexion of their destiny. If liberty, after being extinguished 
on the continent, is suffered to expire here, whence is it 
ever to emerge in the midst of that thick night that will in- 
vest it 1 It remains with you then to decide whether that 
freedom, at whose voice the kingdoms of Europe awoke from 
the sleep of ages, to run a career of virtuous emulation in 
every thing great and good ; the freedom which dispelled the 
mists of superstition, and invited the nations to behold their 
God; whose magic touch kindled the rays of genius, the 
enthusiam of poetry, and the flame of eloquence ; the free- 
dom which poured into our lap opulence and arts, and em- 
bellished life with innumerable institutions and improvements, 
till it became a theatre of wonders ; it is for you to decide 
whether this freedom shall yet survive, or be covered with a 
funeral pall, and wrapped in eternal gloom. It is not ne- 
cessary to await your determination. In the solicitude you 
feel to approve yourselves worthy of such a trust, every 
thought of what is afflicting in warfare, every apprehension 
of danger must vanish, and you are impatient to mingle in 
the battle of the civilized world. Go then, ye defenders of 
your country, accompanied with every auspicious omen ; 
advance with alacrity into the field, where God himself mus- 
ters the hosts to war. Religion is too much interested in 
your success, not to lend you her aid ; she will shed over this 
enterprize her selectest influence. While you are engaged 
in the field many wiU repair to the closet, many to the sanc- 
tuary ; the faithful of every name will employ that prayer 
which has power with God ; the feeble hands which are un- 
equal to any other weapon, will grasp the sword of the Spi- 
rit ; and from myriads of humble, contrite hearts, the voice 
of intercession, supplication, and weeping, will mingle in its 
ascent to heaven with the shout of battle and the shock of 
arms. 



234 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

" While you have every thing to fear from the success of 
the enemy, you have every means of preventing that suc- 
cess, so that it is next to impossible for victory not to crown 
your exertions. The extent of your resources, under God, 
is equal to the justice of our cause. But should Providence 
determine otherwise, should you fall in this struggle, should 
the nation fall, you will have the satisfaction (the purest 
allotted to man) of having performed your part; your 
names will be enrolled with the most illustrious dead, 
while posterity to the end of time, as often as they re- 
volve the events of this period, (and they will incessantly 
revolve them) will turn to you a reverential eye, while they 
mourn over the fi'eedom which is entombed in your se- 
pulchre. I cannot but imagine the virtuous heroes, legisla- 
tors, and patriots, of every age and country, are bending 
from their elevated seats to witness this contest, as if they 
were incapable, tiU it be brought to a favourable issue, of en- 
joying their eternal repose. Enjoy that repose, illustrious 
immortals ! Your mantle fell when you ascended ; and thou- 
sands, inflamed with your spirit, and impatient to tread in 
your steps, are ready to swear by Him that sitteth upon 
the throne, and liveth for ever and ever, they will protect 
freedom in her last asylum, and never desert that cause 
which you sustained by your labours, and cemented with 
your blood. And thou, sole Ruler among the children of 
men, to whom the shields of the earth belong, gird on thy 
sword, thou Most Mighty : go forth with our hosts in the 
day of battle ! Impart, in addition to their hereditary valour, 
that confidence of success which springs fi'om thy presence ! 
Pour into their hearts the spirit of departed heroes ! Inspire 
them with thine own ; and, while led by thine hand, and 
fighting under thy banners, open thou their eyes to behold 
in every valley and in every plain, what the prophet beheld 
by the same illumination — chariots of fire, and horses of fire ! 
IVmi shall the strong man be as tow, and the maker of it 
as a spark ; and they shall burn together, and none shall 
quench them.'''' 

There is nothing very remarkable in Mr. Hall's manner 
of delivering his sermons. His simplicity, yet solemnity of 
deportment, engage the attention, but do not promise any of 



ON PULPIT ORATORY. 235 

his most rapturous effusions. His voice is feeble, but dis- 
tinct, and as he proceeds, trembles beneath his images, and 
conveys the idea, that the spring of sublimity and beauty in 
his mind, is exhaustless, and would pour forth a more copious 
stream, if it had a wider channel than can be supplied by the 
bodily organs. The plainest, and least inspired of his dis- 
courses, are not without delicate gleams of imagery and feli- 
citous turns of expression. He expatiates on the prophecies 
with a kindred spirit, and affords awful glimpses into the 
valley of vision. He often seems to conduct his hearers to 
the top of the " Delectable Mountains," whence they can see 
from afar the glorious gates of the eternal city. He seems 
at home among the marvellous Revelations of St. John ; and 
while he expatiates on them, leads his hearers breathless 
through ever-varying scenes of mystery, far more glorious 
and surprising than the wildest of oriental fables. He stops 
when they most desire that he should proceed — when he has 
just disclosed the dawnings of the inmost glory to their en- 
raptured minds — and leaves them full of imaginations of 
" things not made with hands," — of joys too ravishing for 
smiles — and of impulses which wing their hearts, " along the 
line of limitless desires." 



236 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 



RECOLLECTIONS OF LISBON. 

[New Monthly Magazine.] 

On the first of May, 1818, 1 sailed in one of the government 
packets, from the beautiful harbour of Fahnouth, for Lisbon. 
The voyage, though it only lasted eight days, was sufficiently 
long to excite an earnest desire for our arrival at the port of 
our destiny. The water which so majestically stretches before 
us, when seen fi-om a pi*omontory or headland, loses much of 
its interest and its grandeur when it actually circles round 
us and shuts us in from the world. The part wliich we are 
able to discern from the deck of a vessel, appears of very 
small diameter, and its aspect in fine weather is so uniform 
as to weary the eye, which seems to sicken with following 
the dance of the sun-beams, which alone diversify its sur- 
face. There is something painfully restless and shadowy in 
all around us, wliich forces on om* hearts that feeling of the 
instability and transitoriness of our nature, which we lose 
among the moveless grandeurs of the universe. On the 
sea, all without, instead of affording a resting-place for the 
soul, is emblematic of the fluctuation of our mortal being. 
Those who have long been accustomed to it seem accommo- 
dated to their lot in feeling and in character ; snatch a hasty 
joy with eagerness wherever it can be found, careless of the 
future, and borne lightly on the wave of life without fore- 
thought or struggle. To a landsman there is something in- 
expressibly sad in the want of material objects which en- 
dure. The eye turns disappointed from the glorious pano- 
ply of clouds which attend the setting sun, where it has 
fancied thrones, and golden cities, and temples with their 
holy shrines far sunken within outer courts of splendour, 



RECOLLECTIONS OF LISBON. 23?" 

while it feels that they are but for a moment, gay mockeries 
of the state of man on earth. Often, during my little voyage, 
did I, while looking over the side of the vessel on the dark 
water, think of the beautiful delineation by the most pro- 
found of living poets, of the tender imaginations of a mari- 
ner who had been reared among the mountains, and in his 
heart 'was "half a shepherd on the stormy seas," who was 
wont to hear in the piping shrouds " the tones of water- 
falls and inland sounds of caves and trees," and 

" When the regular wind 
Between the tropics fill'd the steady sail, 
And blew with the same breath Ihrougli days and weeks, 
Lengthening invisibly its weary line 
Along the cloudless main, who in those hours 
Of tiresome indolence, would often hang 
Over the vessel's side, and gaze and gaze; 
And while the broad green wave and sparkling foam 
Flash'd round him images and hues that wrought 
In union with the employment of his heart. 
He, thus by feverish passion overcome, 
Even with the organs of his bodily eye, 
Below him, in the bosom of the deep, 
Saw mountains — saw the forms of sheep that grazed 
On verdant hills — with dwellings among trees, 
And phe[)herds clad in the same country gray 
Which he himself had worn,"* 

I remember, however, with gratitude two evenings, just 
after the renewal of the moon, which were rendered singu- 
larly lovely by a soft, tender, and penetrating light which 
seemed scarcely of this world. The moon on its first ap- 
pearance, before the western lustre had entirely faded away, 
cast no reflection, however pale, on the waves ; but seemed 
like some princely maiden exposed for the first time to vul- 
gar gaze, gently to shrink back as though she feared some 
contamination to her pure and celestial beauty from shining 
forth on so busy and turbulent a sphere. As night advanced, 
it was a solemn pleasure to stand on the deck of the vessel, 
borne swiftly along the noiseless sea, and gaze on the far- 
retiring stars in the azure distance. The mind seems, in 
such a scene, almost to " o'er inform its tenement of clay," 

* See Wordsworth's most affecting pastoral of " The Brothers." 
21 



238 



TALFOURD S MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS. 



and to leap beyond it. It dwells not on the changes of the 
world ; for in its high abstraction, all material things seem 
but passing shadows. Life, with its realities appears like a 
vanishing dream, and the past a tale scarcely credited. ■ The 
pulses of mortal existence are almost suspended — " thought 
is not — in enjoyment it expires." Nothing seems to be in 
the universe but one's-self and God. No feeling of loneli- 
ness has entrance, for the great spirit of Eternal Good seems 
shedding mildest and selectest influences on all things. 

On the eighth morning after our departure from Falmouth, 
on coming as usual on the deck, I found that we were sail- 
ing almost close under " the Rock of Lisbon," which breasts 
the vale of Cintra. It is a stupendous mountain of rock, 
extending very far into the sea, and rising to a dizzy height 
above it. The sides are broken into huge precipices and 
caverns of various and grotesque forms, are covered with 
dark moss, or exhibit naked stones blackened with a thou- 
sand storms. The top consists of an unequal ridge of ap- 
parently shivered rock, sometimes descending in jagged 
lines, and at others rising into sharp, angular, and pointed 
pyramids, which seem to strike into the clouds. What a 
feeling does such a monument excite, shapeless, rugged, and 
setting all form at defiance — when the heart feels that it has 
outlived a thousand generations of perishable man, and be- 
longs to an antiquity compared with which the wonders of 
Egypt are modern ! It seems like the unhewn citadel of a 
giant race ; the mighty wreck of an older and more sub- 
stantial world. 

Leaving the steeps and everlasting recesses of this huge 
mass, we passed the coasts of Portugal. The fields lying 
near the shore appeared for the most part barren, though 
broken Into gentle undulations, and adorned with large spread- 
ing mansions and neat villages. A pleasant breeze brought us 
soon to the mouth of the Tagus, where a scene of enchant- 
ment, " too bright and fair almost for remembrance," bui'st 
upon my view. We sailed between the two fortresses 
which guard the entrance of the river, here several miles in 
width, close to the walls of that on the left, denominated 
" Fort St. Julian." The river, seen up to the beautifial castle 
of Belem, lay before us, not serpentine nor perceptibly con- 
tracting, but between almost parallel shores, like a noble 



RECOLLECTIONS OF LISBON. 239 

avenue of crystal. It was studded with vessels of every 
region, as the sky is sprinkled witli stars, which rested on a 
bosom of waters so calm as scarcely to be curled by the air 
which wafted us softly onwards. On both sides, the shore 
rose into a series of hills on the right side, wDd; abrupt, mazy, 
and tangled, and on the left, covered with the freshest verdure 
and interspersed with luxuriant trees. Noble seats appeared 
crowning the hills and sloping on their sides ; and in the 
spaces between the elevated spots, glimpses were caught of 
sweet valleys winding among scattered woods, or of princely 
domes and spires in the richness of the distance. All wore, 
not the pale livery of an opening spring, but the full bloom 
of maturest summer. The transition to such a seen, spark- 
ling in the richest tints of sunshine and overhung by a cloud- 
less sky of the deepest blue, from the scanty and just-bud- 
ding foliage of Cornwall, as I left it, was like the change of a 
Midsummer Night's Dream ; a sudden admission into fairy 
worlds. As we glided up the enchanted channel, the eleva- 
tions on the left became overspread with magnificent build- 
ings, like mingled temples and palaces, rising one above ano- 
ther into segments of vast amphitheatres, and interspersed 
with groves of the fullest yet most delicate green. Close to 
the Avater lay a barbaric edifice, of rich though fantastic 
architecture, a relic of Moorish grandeur, now converted 
into the last earthly abode of the monarchs of Portugal. 
Hence the buildings continued to thicken over the hills and 
to assume a more confused, though scarcely less romantic 
aspect, till we anchored in front of the most pupulous part 
of Lisbon. The city was stretched beyond the reach of the 
eye, on every side, upon the ascents and summits of very lofty 
and steep elevations. The white houses, thickly intersected 
with windows, mostly framed with green and white lattice- 
work, seemed to have their foundations on the tops of others: 
terraces appeared lifted far above the lofty buildings, and 
other edifices rose above them ; gardens looked as suspended 
by magic in the clouds, and the whole scene wore an aspect 
of the most gorgeous confusion — " all bright and glittering 
in the smokeless air." We landed, and the enchantment 
vanished, at least for a season. Very narrow streets, wind- 
ing in ceaseless turnings over steep ascents and declivities, 
paved only with sharp flints, and filthy beyond compare 



240 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

now seemed to form the interior of the promised elysium. 
Natiu'e and the founders of the city appeared to have done 
their best to render the spot a paradise, and modern genera- 
tions their worst to reduce it to a sinl? of misery. 

Lisbon, like ancient Rome, is buOt on at least seven hiUs. 
It is fitted by situation to be one of the most beautiful cities 
in the world. Seated, or rather enthroned on such a spot, 
commanding a magnificent harbour, and overlooking one of 
the noblest rivers of Europe, it might be more distinguished 
for external beauty than Athens in the days of her freedom. 
Now it seems rather to be the theatre in which the two great 
powers of deformity and loveliness are perpetually struggling 
for the masteiy. The liighest admiration and the most sick- 
ening disgust alternately prevail m the mind of the beholder. 
Never was there so strange an intermixture of the mighty 
and the mean — of the pride of wealth and the abjectness of 
poverty — of the memorials of greatness and the symbols of 
low misery — of the filthy and the romantic. I will dwell, 
however, on the fair side of the picture ; as I envy not ihose 
who delight in exhibitmg the frightful or the gloomy, in the 
moral or the natural world. Often after traversing dark and 
wretched streets, at a sudden turn, a prospect of inimitable 
beauty bursts on the eye of the spectator. He finds himself, 
perhaps, on the brink of a mighty hollow scooped out by na- 
ture amidst hUls, all covered to the tops with edifices, save 
where groves of the freshest verdure are interspersed ; or on 
one side, a mountain rises into a cone far above the city, 
tufted with woods and crowned with some castellated pile, 
the work of other days. The views fronting the TagTis are 
still more extensive and grand. On one of these I stumbled 
a few evenings after my arrival, which almost suspended the 
breath with wonder. I had laboured through a steep and 
narrow street almost choked with dirt, when a small avenue 
on one side, apparently more open, tempted me to step aside 
to breathe the fresher air. I found myself on a little plot of 
gi'oimd, hanging apparently in the air, in the front of one of 
the churches. I stood against a column of the portico ab- 
sorbed in delight and wonder. Before me lay a large por- 
tion of the city — houses descended beneath houses, sLnkmg 
almost precipitously to a fearful depth beneath me, whose 
frame- works, covered over with vines of delicate gi'een, broke 



RECOLLECTIONS OF LISBON. 241 

the ascent like prodigious steps, by which a giant migiit scalc- 
the eminence — the same " wilderness of building" filled up the 
vast hollow, and rose by a more easy slope to the top of the 
opposite hills, which were crowned with turrets, domes, man- 
sions, and regal pavilions of a dazzling whiteness — beyond 
the Tagus, on the southern shore, the coast rose into wild 
and barren hills, wearing an aspect of the roughest sublimity 
and grandeur — and, in the midst, occupying the bosom of 
the great vale, close between the glorious city and the un- 
known wilds, lay the calm and majestic river, from two to 
three miles in width, seen with the utmost distinctness to its 
mouth, on each side of which the two castles which guard 
it were visible, and spread over with a thousand ships —on- 
ward yet farther, far as the eye could reach, the living ocean 
was glistening, and ships, like specks of the purest white, 
were seen crossing it to and fro, giving to the scene an ima- 
ginary extension by carrying the mind with them to far-dis- 
tant shores. It was the time of sunset, and clouds of the 
richest saffron rested on the bosom of the air, and were re- 
flected in softer tints in the waters. Not a whisper reached 
the ear. " The holy time was quiet as a nun breathless witli 
adoration." The scene looked like some vision of blissful 
enchantment, and I scarcely dared to stir or breathe lest it 
should vanish away. 

The eastern quarter of Lisbon, which is chiefly built since 
the great earthquake, stands almost on level ground ; and, 
though surrounded by steep hills, with trees among theu' 
precipices, and aerial terraces on their summits, is not in it- 
self very singular or romantic. A square of noble extent, 
open on the South to the Tagus, which here spreads out 
into a breadth of many miles, so as to wear almost the ap- 
pearance of an inland lake, forms the southern part of this 
modern city. At the south-eastern angle, close to the river, 
stands the Exchange, which is a square white buUding, of no 
particular beauty or size. The sides of the square are occu- 
pied with dull looking white buildings, which are chiefly of- 
fices of state, excepting, indeed, that the plan is incompletely 
executed, as the unfinished state of the western range of edi- 
fices sadly evinces. In the centre is an equestrian statue of 
King Joseph, on a scale so colossal, that the image of Charles 
on horseback at Charing Cross would appear a miniature by 

21* 



242 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

its side. From the northern side of this quadrangle run 
three streets, narrow but built in perfect uniformity, and of 
more than a quarter of a mile in length, wliich connect it 
with another square called the Rocio, of nearly simUar mag- 
nitude and proportions. The houses in these streets are 
Avhite, of five stories in height, with shops, more resembling 
cells, than the brilliant repositories of Cheapside, in the lower 
departments, and latticed windows in the upper stories. — 
They have on both sides elevated pathways for foot passen- 
gers, neatly paved with blocks of stone, and leaving space 
for two carriages to pass in the centre. The Rocio is sur- 
rounded on three sides with houses resembling those in the 
streets, and on the north by a range of building belonging 
to the Inquisition, the subterranean prisons of which extend 
far beneath the square. A little onward to the north of this 
area, amidst filthy suburbs, stands the public garden of the 
city. It is an oblong piece of ground, of considerable ex- 
tent, surrounded by high walls, but always open at proper 
liours to the public. It is planted with high trees of the most 
delicate green, which, however, do not form a mass of im- 
pervious shade, but afford many spots of the thickest shelter, 
and give room for the play of the warm sun-beams, and for 
the contemplation of the stainless sky. The garden is laid 
out with more regularity than taste : one broad walk runs 
completely through it from north to south, on each side of 
which, beneath the loftier shade, are tall hedge-rows, solid 
masses of green, cut into tlie exactest parallelograms. The 
equal spaces on each side of the middle walk are intersected 
by similar hedge-rows — sometimes curving into an open 
circle, surrounded with circular trenches ; at others, enclosing 
an angular space, railed in and cultivated with flowers, and 
occasionally expanding into shapes yet more fantastic. — 
There is no intricacy, no beautiful w'ildness in the scene — 
" half the platform just reflects the other" in the minutest fea- 
tures — but the green is so fresh and so abimdant, and the 
air so delicately fi-agrant, that this garden forms a retreat in 
the warmth of summer which seems almost elysian. 

There are two small places of public amusement in Lisbon, 
where dramatic pieces are performed, chiefly taken from the 
Spanish. The " legitimate drama," however, is of little at- 
traction, compai'ed with the wonderful contortions and rope- 



RECOLLECTIONS OF LISBON. 243 

dancings which these houses exhibit, and which are truly 
surprising. The Opera House, called the Theatre San Car- 
los, is, except on a few particular occasions, almost deserted. 
The audiences are usually so thin, that it is not usual to 
light up the body of the house, except on particular days, 
when the rare illumination is duly announced in the bills. I 
visited it fortunately on the birth-day of the king, which is 
one of the most splendid of its festivals. Its interior is not 
much smaller than that of Covent Garden Theatre, though it 
appears at the first glance much less, from the extreme beauty 
of the proportions. The form is that of an ellipse, exquisitely 
turned, intersected at the farther extremity by the stage. 
The sides are occupied by five tiers of boxes, at least in ap- 
pearance, for the upper circles, which are appropriated to the 
populace by way of gallery, are externally uniform with the 
rest of the theatre. The prevailing colour is white ; the or- 
naments between the boxes, consisting of harps and tasteful 
devices, are of brown and gold, and elegantly divided into 
compartments by rims of burnished gold. The middle of 
the house is occupied by the grand entrance into the pit, the 
royal box, and tlie gallery above it, which is in continuation 
of the higher circle. The royal box is from twelve to fifteen 
feet in length, and occupies in height the space of three rows 
of the common boxes. Above are the crown and regal arms 
in burnished gold, and the sides are supported by statues of 
the same radiant appearance. Curtains of green silk of a 
fine texture usually conceal its internal splendours ; but on 
this occasion they were drawn aside at the same moment 
that the stage was discovered, and displayed the interior il- 
luminated with great brilliancy. This seat of royalty is 
divided into two stories — a slight gallery being thrown over 
the back part of it. Its ground is a deep crimson ; the top 
descends towards the back in a beautiful concave, repre- 
.senting a rich veil of ermine. In the front of the lower com- 
]iartment, behind the seats, is the crown of Portugal figured 
on deep green velvet ; and the sides are adorned with ele- 
gant mirrors. The centre of the roof of the theatre is an 
ellipse, painted to represent the sky with the moon and stars 
visible ; the sides sloping to the upper boxes are of white 
adorned with gold and crimson. The stage is supported on 
each side by two pillars of the composite order of white and 



244 tauourd's miscellaneous writings. 

gold, half in relief, with a brazen statue between each of them. 
It forms an excellent frame work for a dramatic picture. — 
The most singular feature of the house is a clock over the 
centre of the stage, which regularly strikes the hours, with- 
out mercy. What a noble invention this for the use of those 
who contend for the unity of time ! How nicely would it 
enable the French critics to estimate the value of a tragedy 
at a single glance ! How accurately might the time be mea- 
sured out in which eternal attachments should be formed, 
conspiracies planned, and states overthrown ; how might the 
passions of the soul be regulated to a minute, and the rise 
and swell of the great emotions of the heart determined to 
a hair ; with what accuracy might the moments which the 
heroes have yet to live be counted out like those of culprits 
at the Old Bailey ! What huge criticisms of Corneille and 
Voltaire would that little instrument supply ! What volumes, 
founded on its movements, would it render superfluous! 
Even Grecian regularity must yield before it, and criticism 
triumph, by this invariable standard, at once over Sophocles 
and Shakspeare. 

The scenery was wretched — the singers tolerable — and 
the band excellent. The ballet took place between the acts 
of the opera, and was spun out to great length. The dancing 
consisted partly of wonderfLil twirlings of the French school, 
and partly of the more wonderful contortions of the Portu- 
guese ; both kinds exceedingly clever, but exhibiting very 
little of true beauty, grace, or elegance. At the close of the 
first act, a perfect shower of roses, pinks, and carnations, 
together with printed sonnets, was poured down from the 
top of the theatre in honour of his majesty, whose absence, 
however, even Portuguese loyalty cannot pardon. 

The churches are the most remarkable of the public build- 
ings of Lisbon; though plain on the outside, they are ex- 
ceedingly splendid in the interior. The tutelary saints are 
richer than many Continental princes, though their treasures 
are only displayed to excite the reverence or the cupidity of 
the people on high and festal occasions. The most beautiful, 
though not the largest of the churches -which I have examined, 
is that of the Estrella, which is lined with finely-varied and 
highly-polished marble, vaulted over with a splendid and 
sculptured roof, and adorned, in its gilded recesses, with 



RECOLLECTIONS OF LISBON. 245 

beautiful pictures. Were it not, indeed, for the impression 
made on me by one of tlie latter, I should scarcely have 
mentioned this edifice, unable as I am technically to describe 
it. The piece to which I allude is not, that I can discover, 
held in particular estimation, or the production of any cele- 
brated artist ; but it excited in me feelings of admiration and 
delight, which can never die away. It represents Saint John 
in' the Isle of Patmos, gazing on the vision in which the angels 
are pouring forth the vials, and with the pen in his hand, 
ready to commit to sacred and imperishable record the awful 
and mysterious scenes opened before him. Never did I be- 
hold or imagine such a figure. He is sitting, half entranced 
with wonder at the revelation disclosed to him, half mourn- 
fully conscious of the evils which he is darkly to predict to a 
fated and unheeding world. The face, in its mere form and 
colouring, is most beautiful : its features are perfectly lovely, 
though inclining rather to cherubic roundness than Grecian 
austerity, and its roseate bloom of youth is gently touched 
and softened by the feelings attendant on the sad and holy 
vocation of the beloved disciple. The head is bent forward, 
in eagerness, anxiety, and reverence ; the eyebrows arched in 
wonder, yet bearing in every line some undefinable expression 
of pity ; the eyes are uplifted, and beaming with holy inspi- 
ration, yet mild, soft, angelical ; around the exquisitely-formed 
mouth, sweet tendernesses for the inevitable sorrows of man- 
kind are playing; and the bright chesnut hair, falling in 
masses over the shoulders, gives to all this expression of 
high yet soft emotion, a finishing grace and completeness. 
This figure displays such unspeakable sweetness tempering 
such prophetic fire ; such religious and saintly purity, mingled 
with so genial a compassion ; it is at once so individual and 
so ideal ; so bordering on the celestial, and yet so perfectly 
within the range of human sympathies ; that it is difficult to 
say, whether the delicious emotions which it inspires partake 
most of wonder or of love. The image seemed, like sweet 
music, to sink into the soul, there to remain for ever. To 
see such a piece is really to be made better and happier. 
The recollection is a precious treasure for the feelings and 
the imagination, of which nothing, while they endure, can 
deprive them. 

The church at Belem, a fortified place on the Tagus, three 



246 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

or four miles from Lisbon, where the kings and royal family 
of Portugal have, for many generations, been interred, must 
not be forgotten. It is one of the most ancient buildings iir 
the kingdom, having originally been erected by the Romans, 
and splendidly adorned by the Moorish sovereigns. Formed 
of white stone, it is now stained to a reddish brown by the 
mere influence of years, and frowns over the water " cased 
in the unfeeling armour of old time." Its shape is oblong, its 
sides of gigantic proportions, and its massive appearance 
most grand and awe-inspiring. The principal entrance is 
by a deep archway, reaching to a great height and circular 
within, ornamented above and around with the most 
crowded, venerable, and yet fantastic devices — martyrs and 
heroes of chivalry — swords and crosiers — monarchs and 
saints — crosses and sceptres — "the roses and flowers of 
kings" and the sad emblems of mortality — all wearing the 
stamp of deep antiquity, all appearing carved out of one 
eternal rock, and promising by their air of solid grandeur to 
survive as many stupendous changes as those which have 
already lefl; them unshaken. The interior of this venerable 
edifice is not less awe-breathmg or substantial. Eight huge 
pillars of barbaric architecture, and covered all over with 
strange figures and grotesque ornaments in relievo, support 
the roof, which is white, ponderous, and of a noble simplicity, 
being only divided into vast square compartments by the 
beams which cross it. Such a pile, devoted to form the last 
resting-place of a line of kings who have, each in his brief 
span of time, held the fate of mDlions at his pleasure, cannot 
fail to excite solemn and pensive thought. And yet what 
are the feelings thus excited, to those m.editations to which 
the great i-epository of the illustrious deceased in England 
invites us ! Here we think of nothing but the perishableness • 
of man in his best estate — the emptiness of human honours 
— the low and fraU nature of all the distmctions of earth. A 
race of monarchs occupy but a narrow vault : they were 
kings, and now are dust ; and this idea forced home upon us, 
makes us feel that the most potent and enduring of worldly 
things — thrones, dynasties, and the peaceable succession of 
high families — are but as feeble shadows. We learn only to 
feel our wealaiess. But in the sacred place where all that 
could perish of our orators, philosophers, and poets, is re- 



RECOLLECTIONS OF LISBON. 247 

posing, we feel our mortality only to lend us a stronger and 
more ethereal sense of our eternal being. Life and death 
seem met together, as in a holy fane, in peaceful concord. 
While we feel that the mightiest must yield to the stern law 
of necessity, we know that the very monuments which record 
the decay of their outward frame, are so many proofs and 
symbols that they shall never really expire. We feel that 
those whose remembrance is thus extended beyond the 
desolating power of the grave, over whose fame death and 
mortal accidents have no power, are not themselves de- 
stroyed. And when we recollect the more indestructible 
monuments of their genius, those works, which live not only 
in the libraries of the studious, but in the hearts and imagina- 
tions of men ; we are conscious at once, that the spirit which 
conceived, and the souls which appreciate and love them, are 
not of the earth, earthy. Our thouglits are not wholly of 
humiliation and sorrow ! but stretch forward, with a pensive 
majesty, into the permanent and the immortal. 

Having inspected the city, I was naturally anxious to visit 
the celebrated Aqueduct, which is carried across a deep 
valley two or three miles from Lisbon. Having passed the 
suburbs, and reached the open country, I saw, at a sudden 
turn in the pathway, the mighty object of my wanderings. 
I foimd myself on the summit of a gently-sloping declivity, at 
a little distance from the foot of which a hill rose to an equal 
height, with a bold and luxuriant sweep. It is across the 
expanse thus formed, that the stupendous bridge runs, in 
two straight lines from each eminence, which form an obtuse 
angle in the centre. The whole is supported by thirty-six 
arches, which, as the ground from each extremity sinks, in- 
crease in height, or rather depth, til] in the middle of the pile, 
the distance to which they ascend from the vale is fearful. 
This huge structure is composed of dark gi-ay stone, the deep 
colour of which gives to its massiveness an air of the sternest 
grandeur. The water is conveyed across the level thus 
formed, through a chain of building which occupies its centre, 
and appears almost like a line of solid and unbroken rock. 
Above this erection, turrets of still greater height, and of the 
same materials, are reared at regular intervals, and crown 
the whole. The road is thus divided into two passes, which 
are secured by high ridges of stone, in the long, uninterrupted 



248 talpourd's miscellaneous writings. 

straight lines, which have an air of so awful a grandeur in 
the noblest remains of Roman art. The view from the 
southern road, though romantic, is, for the most part, con- 
fined within narrow boundaries, as rugged hills arise on this 
side almost from the foot of the Aqueduct, to a height far 
above its towers, cultivated only towards the lower parts, 
and covered on the loftier spots with a thin grass and shape- 
less blocks or masses of granite. This mountainous ridge 
breaks, however, in the centre, and abruptly displays a piece 
of the Tagus, like an inland lake, with its tenderly-rimpled 
blue, and the wild and lofty banks which rise precipitously 
beyond it. As the sun was declining when I traversed this 
path, the portion of craggy shore thus disclosed, and the 
shrubs which flourish among its steeps, were overcast with 
the richest tints from the West, and the vessels gently gliding 
through the opening made by the shaggy declivities of the 
nearer hUls, completed the feeling of genial composure diffused 
over the scene. From the Northern side, the prospect ajv 
pears arrayed in far gayer charms. The valley here, from 
the narrow point at which it is seen, spreads out into a fan- 
like form, till the eminences on each side seem gradually to 
melt away, and the open country lies in fuU expanse to the 
view. It is a scene of fresh, reposing, and perfect beauty. 
Not an angular intersection breaks the roundness, or inter- 
rupts the grace, which characterize the whole. The hills in 
the foreground sink from each side of the Aqueduct, graduaUy 
to the depth of the vale, covered with the freshest verdure, 
fluctuating in a wave-like motion ; and the more distant land- 
scape appears composed of a thousand gentle undulations, 
thrown up by Nature in her sweetest mood, as though the 
earth were swelling with an exuberant bounty, even to the 
rim of the circling sky, with the form of which all is harmo- 
nious. The green in which the prospect is clothed, is of a 
softer and more vivid hue than in England; the pastures 
seem absolutely to sparkle on the eye; and, amidst this 
" splendour in the grass, this glory in the flower," the lively 
groves of orange and the villas of purest white scattered 
thickly around, give to the picture a fairy brightness. And 
yet, setting individual associations aside, I prefer the scenery 
of my own country to this enchanted vale. This is a land- 
scape to visit as a spectacle, not to live in. There is no 



RECOLLECTIONS OF LISBON. 249 

solemnity about it, — no austere beauty, — no retiring loveli- 
ness ; there are no grand masses of shade, — no venerable 
oaks, which seem coeval with the liills over which they cast 
their shadows, — no vast colonnades, in which the fine spirit 
of the elder time seems yet to keep its state. Nature wear.s 
not the pale livery which inspires meditation or solemn joy ; 
her face seems wreathed in a perpetual smile. The land- 
scape breathes, indeed, of intoxicating delight ; it invites to 
present joy ; but it leads to no tender reminiscences of the 
past, nor gives solemn indications of the future. It is other- 
wise in the very deficiencies, as they are usually regarded, 
of our happier land. There "the pale primrose that dies 
unmarried" among the scanty hedge-rows, as an emblem of 
innocence peeping forth amidst a cheerless world, suggests 
more pensive yet delicious musing, than the gaudiest pro- 
ductions of this brighter clime. The wild roses, thinly inter- 
spersed among our thickets, with their delicate colouring 
and faint perfume, afford images of rustic modesty, far 
sweeter and more genial than the rich garlands which 
cluster here. Those "echoes from beyond the grave," 
which come to us amid the stillness of forests wliich have 
outlived generations of men, are here unheard. In these 
valleys we are dazzled, surprised, enchanted ; — in ours we 
are moved with solemn yet pleasing thoughts, which " do 
often lie too deep for tears." 

Having traversed both sides of the aqueduct, I resolved to 
ascend one of the hills beyond it, for the purpose of obtain- 
ing a still more extensive view. After a most weary ascent, 
of which my eye had taken a very inadequate estimate, I 
reached the summit, and was amply rewarded for my toils. 
To the north lay the prospect which I have endeavoured to 
describe, softened in the distance ; beneath was the huge 
pile, with its massive arches and lone turrets bridging the 
vale. To the south was the Tagus, and, a little onward, 
its entrance where it gently blended with the sea. Com- 
pletely round the north-eastern side of the horizon, the same 
mighty and beautifiil river appeared flowing on far beyond 
Lisbon, in a noble curve, which seemed to dissolve in the 
lighter blue of the heavens. And, full to the west, beyond 
the coasts of Portugal, now irradiated with the most brilliant 
colouring, was the free and circling ocean, on which, amidst 
22 



250 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

visionary shapes or orange and saffron glory, the sun was, 
for his last moment, resting. Soon the sky became literally 
" fretted Avith golden fire," and the hills seemed covered with 
a tender haze of light, which rendered them yet lovelier. 
The moon began to blend her mild radiance with the sweet 
twilight, as I took the last glance at the vale, and hastened to 
Lisbon. 

On Thursday, the 21st of May, a grand festival was hold- 
en in honour of Saint George, who is held in peculiar re- 
verence in Lisbon. On this most sacred occasion, all the 
buildings around the vast area of the Rocio were hung with 
crimson tapestry ; a road was formed of fine gravel, guard- 
ed by lines of soldiers ; and the troops, to a great number, 
in splendid uniforms, occupied the most conspicuous pas- 
sages. When all was prepared, the train issued fifom a 
church m one of the angles of the square, and slowly pa- 
raded round the path prepared for it. It consisted of all 
the ecclesiastical orders, attired in their richest vestments, 
and bearing, alternately, crosses of gold and silver ; cano- 
pies of white, purple, orange, and crimson silk, bordered with 
deep fringes ; and gorgeous banners, decorated with cmious 
devices. The canopy which floated over the consecrated 
wafer, formerly borne by the king and the prmces, was, on 
this occasion, carried by the chief persons of the regency. 
But the most remarkable object was the Saint himself, who, 
" not to speak it profanely," is no other than a wooden 
figure, and, I am afi'aid, must yield in propoiiion and in 
grace to that unconsecrated work, the Apollo Belvidere. 
He was seated on a noble horse, and arrayed in a pro- 
fusion of gems, which, according to the accounts of the Por- 
tuguese, human powers could hardly calculate. His boots 
were of solid silver ; his whole person begirt with jewels, 
and his hat glittered in the sun like one prodigious diamond. 
He descended in state from the castle to the church, whence 
the procession issued, and remained there during the so- 
lemnities. He was saluted, on leaving his mansion, with a 
discharge of artillery, and received the same compliment on 
his return to that favoured residence. The people, who 
were of course assembled in gi'eat crowds, did not appear 
to me to look on the magnificent desplay before them with 



RECOLLECTIONS OF LISBON. 25 I 

any feeling of religious awe, or to regard it in any other 
light than, at the most, a national spectacle. 

Of the national character of the Portuguese in general, I 
can say very little, as my personal intercourse with them 
was extremely limited. Were I to believe all that some Eng- 
lish residents in Lisbon have told me, I should draw a 
gloomy picture of human degradation, unrelieved by a sin- 
gle redeeming grace. I should say that the common people 
are not only ignorant and filthy, but universally dishonest ; 
that they blend the vices of savage and social life, and are 
ready to become either pilferers or assassins ; that they are 
cruel to their children, lax in friendship, and implacable in 
revenge ; that the higher orders are at once the dupes and 
tyrants of their servants, familiar with them one moment, 
and brutaDy despotic the next ; that they are in constant 
jealousy of their wives, and not without reason ; and that 
even their vices are without dignity or decorum. Jill this 
can never he true, or Lisbon would not be subsisting in order 
and peace. To me, the inhabitants appear in a more amia- 
ble light. Filthy and ignorant the common ];)eople doubt- 
less are ; but they are sober ; and those dreadful excesses 
and sorrows which arise from the use, in England, of ardent 
spirits, are consequently unknown. They are idle ; but the 
warmth of the climate may, in some degree, excuse them. 
No mnk is destitute of some appearance of native courteous- 
ness. The rich are not, indeed, Howards or C'larksons; 
they have no idea of exerting themselves to any great de- 
gree, to draw down blessings on the heads of others or their 
own ; they do not go in search of wretchedness in order to 
remove it ; but when misery is brought before them, as it is 
constantly here in a thousand ghastly forms, they are far 
from withholding such aid as money can render. The gar- 
dens of their country viDas, which are exceedingly elegant, 
are always open in the evenings to any of the populace who 
choose to walk there, so that the citizen, on the nmnerous 
holidays, which the Romish church affords, is not compelled 
to inhale the dust in some wretched tea-garden, which is a 
libel at once on nature and art, but may rove with his chil- 
dren through groves of orange and thickets of roses. When 
the company thus indulged meet any of the family which re- 
side in the mansion, they acknowledge the favour which they 



252 talfourd's miscellaneous -writings, 

are enjoying by obeisances not ungi'acefully made, which 
are always returned with equal courtesy. I am assured 
that this privilege is never abused ; even the children walk 
amidst the flowers and the fruits, without the slightest idea 
of touching them. This circumstance alone would induce 
me to doubt the justice with which some have attempted 
to fix the brand of dishonesty on the inferior classes of 
Portugal. The people want not the natural tendernesses 
and gentle movements of the heart ; all their deficiencies 
arise from the absence of high principle, the languisMng of 
intellect, and the decay of the loftier powers and energies 
wliich dignify man. They have no enthusiasm, no devoted 
admiration, or love, for objects unconnected with the neces- 
sities of their mortal being, or the low gratifications of sense. 
They have few mighty names to lend them an inspiration, 
Avhich might supply the place of contemporary genius; 
and with those, of which they ought to be fond in propor- 
tion to their rarity, they appear scarcely acquainted. Of 
the rich stores of poetry and romance, which they might en- 
joy from the neighboming country and almost similar lan- 
guage of Spain, they are, for the most part, unconscious. 
Not only has the spirit of chivalry departed from these 
mountains, where it once was glowmg ; but its marvellous 
and golden tales are neglected or forgotten. 

The degradation of the public mmd in Lisbon is increased 
by the notorious venality of the ministers of justice. There 
is no crime for which indemnity may not be purchased by a 
bribe. Even offences against the government of the king 
may be winked at, if the culprit is able to make an ample pe- 
cuniary sacrifice. It is a well known fact that some of the 
chief conspirators in the plot to assassinate Marshal Beres- 
ford, and change the whole order of things in Portugal, were 
able to make their peace with the judges, and, on the ground 
of some technical informality, were dismissed without trial. 
When any one is accused of an otfence, he is generally sent 
at once to prison, where he remains until he can purchase 
his freedom. There does not seem, however, any dis- 
position to persecution for opinions, or to exercise wanton 
cruelty. The Inquisition is no longer an engine in the hands 
of the priests, but is merely a tribunal for the examination 
and the punishment of political offences. Death is rarely in- 



KECOLLECTION'S OF LISBON. 253 

flicted ; for it brings no gain to tiie magistrate. Criminals 
guilty of the highest offences are kept in prison until they 
are forgotten, without any one knowing or caring about their 
fate. In the absence of the sovereign almost all the civil au- 
thorities have become totally corrupted, for there is no patriot 
to watch, and no public voice to awe them. The people ap- 
pear sunk in apathy to all excepting gain ; and the greater 
number of them crawl on with little hope, except to supply 
the cravings of hunger. The city, notwithstanding its popu- 
lousness, exhibits all the marks of decay — buildings in ruins 
amidst its stateliest streets, and houses begun on a magnifi- 
cent scale, and left unfinished for years. The foreign mer- 
chants, especially the British, who use it as a central port, 
give it an artificial life, without which its condition would be 
most wretched. In bidding farewell to this bright abode of 
degraded humanity, I felt it impossible to believe that it was 
destined gradually to become desolate and voiceless. Glo- 
rious indeed would be the change, if knowledge should ex- 
pand the souls now so low and contracted, into a sympathy 
with the natural wonders around them — if the arts should 
once more adorn the romantic city — and the orange groves 
and lovely spots among the delicate cork trees should be 
vocal with the innocent gaiety of happy peasants, or shed 
their influences on the hearts of youthful bards. If, indeed, 
the people were awakened into energy, and their spirit was 
regulated by wise and beneficent governors, the capital of 
Portugal would assuredly become the fairest of cities. 



254 TALPOURd's miscellaneous WRni>"G3. 



MR. CHARLES LLOYD'S POEMS.* 

[London Magazine.] 

There is no more remarkable instance of the " cant of 
criticism," tlian the representation currently received as dis- 
tinctive, whereby several authors, chiefly residing in the 
neighboui-hood of the lakes, were characterized as belonging 
to one school of poetry. In truth, propinquity of residence, 
and the bonds of private friendship, are the only circum- 
stances which have ever given the slightest colour to the hy- 
pothesis which marked them out as disciples of the same 
creed. It is scarcely possible to conceive individuals more 
dissimilar in the objects of their choice, or in the essential 
properties of their genius. Who, for example, can have less 
in common than Wordsworth and Coleridge, if we except 
those faculties wliich are necessarily the portion of the high- 
est order of imaginative minds 1 The former of these has 
sought for his subjects among the most ordinary occurrences 
of life, wMch he has dignified and exalted, from which he has 
extracted the holiest essences of good, or over which he has 
cast a consecrating and harmonizing light " which never was 
by sea or land." The latter, on the other hand, has spread 
abroad his mighty mind, searching for his materials through 
all history and all science, penetrating into the hidden soul of 
the wildest superstitions, and selecting the richest spoils of 
time from the remotest ages. Wordsworth is all intensity — 
he sees nothing, but through the halloAving medium of his 
own soul, and represents all things calm, sDent, and harmo- 

* Desultory Tliong-hts in London, Titus and Gisippus, with other 
Paems. By Clinrles Lloyd, autlior of Nugse Canorse, and translator 
of Aliieri's'TrM^edies, l2mo. 1821. 



LLOYD S POEMS. 255 

nious as his own perceptions. Coleridge throws himself into 
all the various objects which he contemplates, and attracts to 
his own imagery their colours and forms. The first, seizes 
only the mighty and the true with a giant grasp ; — the last 
has a passionate and almost effeminate love of beauty and 
tenderness which he never loses. One looks only on the 
affections in their inmost home, while the other pei'ceives 
them in the lightest and remotest tints, which they cast on 
objects the strangest and most barbarous. All the distinc- 
tion, in short, between the intense and the expansive — the 
severe and the lovely — the philosophic and the magical — 
really separates these great poets, whom it has been the 
fashion to censure as united in one heresy. If we cast the 
slightest glance at Southey's productions, we shall find him 
unlike either of these, his associates — offering a child-like 
feebleness in contrast to Wordsworth's nerve — and ranging 
through mythologies and strange fantasies, not only with 
less dominion than Coleridge, but merely portraying the 
shapes to which they gave existence, instead of discovering 
the spirit of truth and beauty within them. Nor does the 
author before us, often combine with these by the ignorance 

or the artifice of criticism, differ less widely from them. 

Without Wordsworth's intuitive perception of the profound- 
est truth's, or Coleridge's feeling of beauty, he has a subtle 
activity of mind which supplies the place of the first, and a 
wonderful power of minute observation, which, when di- 
rected to lovely objects, in a great degree produces the ef- 
fect of the latter. All these three rise on some occasions to 
the highest heaven of thought and feeling, though by various 
processes — Wordsworth reaching it at once by the divine 
wingedness of his genius — Coleridge ascending to it by a 
spiral tract of glory winding on through many a circuit of 
celestial light— and Lloyd stepping thither by a firm ladder, 
like that of Jacob, by even steps, which the feet of angels 
have trodden ! 

The peculiar qualities of Mr. Lloyd's genius have never 
been so clearly developed as in the chief poem of the work be- 
fore us. In his " Nugae Canorae," all his thoughts and feel- 
ings were overcast-by a gentle melancholy, which rendered 
their prominences less distinct, as it shed over them one sad 
and sober hue. Even, however, in his most pensive moods, 



256 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

the vigorous and restless acti\ity of his intellect might be dis- 
cerned, curiously inquiring for the secret springs of its own 
distress, and regarding its sorrows as high problems worthy 
of the most painful scrutiny. While he exhibited to us the 
full and pensive stream of emotion, with all the images of 
soft clouds and delicate foliage reflected on its bosom, he 
failed not to conduct us to its deep-seated foimtains, or to 
lay open to our view the jagged caverns within its banks. 
Yet here the vast intellectual power was less conspicuous 
than in his last poems, because the personal emotion was 
more intense, single, and pervading. He is now, we rejoice 
to observe, more " i' the sun," and consequently, the nice 
workings of his reason are set more distinctly before us. The 
" Desultory Thoughts in London " embrace a great variety 
of topics, associated in the mind of the author with the me- 
tropolis, but many of them belonging to those classes of ab- 
straction which might as fitly be contemplated in a desert. 
Among these are " Fate, free will, foreknowledge absolute," 
— the theories of manners and morals — the doctrines of ex- 
pediency and self-interest^with many speculations relating 
to the imaginative parts of literature, and the influences of 
religion upon them — aU of which are grasped by the hand 
of a master. The whole range of controversial writing 
scarcely affords an example of propositions stated so lucidly, 
qualified so craftUy, and m'ged with such exemplary fauness 
and candom', as in this work. It must, indeed, be admitted, 
that the admirable qualities of the argument render it some- 
what unfit for marriage " with immortal verse." Philoso- 
phical poetiy, when most attractive, seizes on some grand 
elemental truths, which it Imks to the noblest material images, 
and seeks rather to send one vast sentiment to the heart 
through the medium of the imagination, than to lead the mind 
by a regular process of logic, to the result which it contem- 
plates. Mere didactic poetry, as Pope's Essay on Man, suc- 
ceeds not by the nice balance of reasons, but by decking out 
some obvious common place in a gorgeous rhetoric, or by 
expressing a familiar sentiment in such forcible language as 
■will give it a singular charm to aU who have felt its justice 
in a plainer garb. In general, the poet, no less than the wo- 
man, who deliberates, is lost. But Mr. Lloyd's effusions are 
in a great measure exceptions to this rule ; — for though they 



Lloyd's poems. 257 

are sometimes " harsh and crabbed," and sometimes too 
minute, they are marked by so hearty an earnestness, and 
adorned by such variety of illustration, and imbued with such 
deep sentiment, that they often enchant while they convince 
us. Although his processes are careful, his results belong to 
the stateliest range of truths. His most laborious reasonings 
lead us to elevated views of humanity — to the sense of a might 
above reason itself — to those objects which have inspired the 
most glorious enthusiasm, and of which the profoundest bards 
have delighted to afford us glimpses. It is quite inspiring to 
follow him as he detects the inconsistencies of worldly wisdom, 
as he breaks the shallow reasonings of the advocates of expe- 
diency into pieces, or as he vindicates theii" prerogatives to faith 
and hope. He leads us up a steep and stony ascent, step by 
step ; but cheers us by many a ravishing prospect by the way, 
and conducts at last to an eminence, not only above the mists 
of error, but where the rainbow comes, and whence the gate 
of heaven may be seen as from the Delectable Mountains 
which Bunyan's Pilgrim visited. 

We scarcely know how to select a specimen which shall 
do justice to an author, whose speculations are too vast to 
be completed within a short space, and are connected with 
others by delicate links of thought. We will give, however, 
his vmdication of the enthusiastic and self-denying spirit, 
which, however associated with absurdity, is the soul of all 
religion and virtue. 

Reasoncrs, lliat argue of ye know not what, 
Do not, as mystical, my strain deride : 
By facts' criterion be its doctrine tried. 

The blind as well might doubt of sense and sight ; 

Peruse their lives, who thus have vow'd pursuit 
Of heavenly communion : in despite 

Of all your arguments ye can't dispute 
Their singleness of heart: exce()t ye figlit 

'Gainst facts, ye, self-convicted, must be mute. 
Will ye deny, that they've a secret found 
To baffle fate, and hea! each mortal wound ? 

Will ye deny, to them alone 'tis given, 

Who its existence, as a faith, embraced? 
'Tis mainly requisite, to partake of heaven, 

Tiiat the heart's treasures there should first be placed. 



258 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

According to thy faith shall it be given 

To thee, with spiritual glories, to be graced. 
As well all facts whence man experience hath, 
As doubt immunities bound up in faith. 

'Tis easy thing to say, that men are knaves ; 

'Tis easy thing to say, that men are fools ; 
'Tis easy thing to say, an author raves; 

Easy, to him who always ridicules 
The incomprehensible, to allege — and saves 

Trouble of farther thought — that oft there rules 
Fanatic feeling in a mad-man's brain : 
That half-pretence oft ekes out half-insane. 

We know all this ; but we know also well, 
These men we speak of tried by every test 

Admissible, all other men excel 

In virtue, and in happiness. Since bless'd 

Are they, stern Fate, spite of thy direst spell! 
Infection, loathsome maladies, each pest 

And plague, — for these have they, — should they assail, 

A panacea which will never fail. 

God is their rock, their fortress of defence. 
In time of trouble, a defence most holy ; 

For them the wrath of man is impotence; 
His pride, a bubble; and his wisdom, folly. 

That " peace" have they — unspeakable intense,— 
" Which passeth understanding !" Melancholy 

Life's gauds to them : the unseen they explore : 

Rooted in heaven, to live is — to adore 1 

Ye, that might cavil at these humble lays. 

Peruse the page of child-like Fenelon; 
Hear what the wrapped, transfigur'd Guion says 

With ills of body such as few have known; — 
Tedious imprisonment ; in youthful days 

To luxuries used, they all aside are thrown ; 
To poverty devoted, she defies 

Its sorest ills, blessing the sacrifice. 

Was e'er an instance known, that man could taste 
True peace of mind, and spurn religion's laws ? 

In other things were this alliance traced; 
Constant coincidence; eflfect, and cause. 

We scruple not to call them; or, at least. 
Condition indispensable, whence draws 



Lloyd's poems. 259 

The one, the other. This coincidence 

But grant me here; — and grant the consequence. 

Facts, facts, are stubborn things! We trust the sense 

Of sight, because th' experience of each day 
Warrants our trust in it. Now, tell me whence 

It is, no mortal yet could dare to say, 
Man trusted in his God for his defence. 

And was confounded? cover'd with dismay? 
Loses he friends? Religion dries his tears! 
Loses he life? Religion calms his fears! 

Loses he health? Religion balms his mind, 

And pains of flesh seem ministers of gracej 
And wait upon a rapture more refin'd, 

Then e'en in lustiest health e'er found a place. 
Loses he wealth? the pleasure if cdin Jind 

He had before renounced; thus he can trace 
No difference, but that now the heart bestows 
What through a hand less affluent scantier flows. 



He too as much enjoys the spectacle 

Of good, when done by others as by him: 

Loses he fame? the honour he loves well 
Is not of earth, but that which seraphim 

Might prize! Loses he liberty? his cell, 
And all its vaults, echo his rapturous hymn ! 

He feels as free as freest bird in air! 

His heaven-shrin'd spirit finds heaven every where! 

'Tis not romance which we are uttering! No; 

Thousands of volumes each word's truth attest! 
Thousands of souls redeem'd from all below 

Can bring a proof, that, e'en while earthly guest, 
'Tis possible for man that peace to know. 

Which maketh him impassive to the test 
Of mortal sufferance! Many and many a martyr 
Has found this bound up in religion's charter. 

Pleasure, or philosophical or sensual. 

Is not, ought not to be, man's primary rule; 

We often feel bound by a law potential 

To do those things which e'en our reasons fool. 

God, and he only, sees the consequential; 
The mind, well nurtur'd in religion's school 

Feels that He only — to whom all's obedient — 

Has right to guide itself by the expedient. 



260 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

Zfuty is man's first law, not satisfaction! 

That satisfaction comes from this perform'd, 
We grant! But should this be the prime attraction 

That led us to performance, soon inform'd 
By finding that we've miss'd the meed of action, 

We shall confess our error. Oft we're warm'd, 
By a strong spirit we cannot restrain, 
To deeds, which make all calculation vain. 

Had Regulus reason'd, whether ou the scale 
Of Mse, in Rome, his faculties would most, 

Or Carthage — patriotism's cause avail, 
He never had resurn'd his fatal post. 

Brutus, Virginius had they tried by tale 

Their country's cause, had never been her boast. 

Yet had it not these self doom'd heroes seen, 

Rome " the eternal city," ne'er had been I 

Shall Christ submit upon the cross to bleed, 
And man for all he does a reason ask? 

Have martyrs died, and confessors, indeed, 
That he must seek a why for every task? 

If it be so, to prate we've little need 

Of this enlightened age ! Take off the mask ! 

If it be so, and ye'll find this our proud age, — 

Its grand climacterick past is in its dotage. 

Thy name, Thermopylae, had ne'er been heard, 
Were not the Greeks wiser than our wise men. 

I grant, that heaven alone to man transferr'd. 
When he would raise up states for history's pen, 

This more than mortal instinct ! Yet absurd 
It is (because, perhaps, our narrower ken 

Their heights cannot descry; yea, and a curse 

'Twill bring) to make a theory of the worse. 

A theory for a declining race! 

No, let us keep at least our lips from lies; 
If we have forfeited Truth's soaring grace. 

Let us not falsify her prodigies. 
We well may wear a blush upon our face, 

From her past triumphs so t' apostatize 
In deeds ; but let us not with this invent 
And infidelity of argument. 

Go to Palmyra's ruins; visit Greece, 

Behold ! The wrecks of her magnificence 

Seem left, in spite of man, thus to increase 
The sting of satire on his impotence. 



Lloyd's poems, 261 

As to betray how soon man's glories cease ; 

Tombs, time defying, of the most pretence 
But only make us feel with more surprise, 
How mean the things they would immortalize! 

The following is only a portion of a series of reminis- 
cences equally luxurious and intense, and wliich are attended 
throughout by that vein of reflection which our author never 
loses : 

Oh, were the eye of youth a moment ours! 

When every flower that gemm'd the various earth 
Brought down from Heaven enjoyment's genial showers! 

And every bird, of everlasting mirtli 
Frophecied to us in romantic bowers! 

Love was the garniture, whose blameless birth 
Caus'd that cacli filmy web where dew-drops trembled, 
The gossamery haunt of elves resembled! 

We can remember earliest days of spring, 

When violets blue and white, and primrose pale. 

Like callow nestlings 'neath their mother's wing, 
Each peep'd from under the broad leaf's green veil. 

When streams look'd blue; and thin clouds clustering 
O'er the wide empyrean did prevail. 

Rising like incense from the breathing world. 

Whose gracious aspect was with dew impearl'd. 

When a soft moisture, steaming every where, 

To the earth's countenance mellower hues imparted; 

When sylvan choristers self-pois'd in air. 

Or perched on bows, in shrilly quiverings darted 

Their little raptures forth; when the warm glare 

(While glancing lights backwards and forwards started. 

As if with meteors silver-sheath'd 'twere flooded) 

Sultry, and silent, on the hill's turf brooded. 

Oh, in these moments we such joy have felt, 

As if the earth were nothing but a shrine; 
Where all, or awe inspir'd, or made one melt 

Gratefully towards its architect divine! 
Father! in future (as I once have dwelt 

Within that very sanctuary of thine 
When shapes, and sounds, soem'd as but modes of Tliue!) 
That with experience gain'd wore heaven to mc ! 
23 



262 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

Oft in the fulness of the joy ye give, 

Oh, days of youth I in summer's noon-tide hours, 

Did I a depth of quietness receive 

From insects' drowsy hum, that all my powers 

Would baffle to portray ! Let them that live 
In vacant solitude, speak from their bowers 

What nameless pleasures letter'd ease may cheer, 

Thee, Nature! bless'd to mark with eye and ear! — 

Who can have watch'd the wild rose' blushing dye, 
And seen what treasures its rich cups contain; 

Who, of soft shades the fine variety, 

From white to deepest flush of vermeil stain? 

Who, when impearl'd with dew-drop's radiancy 
Its petals breath'd perfume, while he did strain 

His very being, lest the sense should fail 

T' imbibe each sweet its beauties did exhale? 

Who amid lanes, on eve of summer days. 

Which sheep brouse, could the thicket's wealth behold: 
The fragrant honey-suckle's bowery maze? 

The furze bush, with its vegetable gold? 
In every satin sheath that helps to raise 

The fox-glove's cone, the figures manifold 
With such a dainty exquisiteness wrought ? — 
Nor grant that thoughtful love they all have taught? 

The daisy, cowslip, each have to them given — 
The wood anemone, the strawberry wild, 

Grass of Parnassus, meek as star of even: — 
Bright, as the brightening eye of smiling child, 

And bathed in blue transparency of heaven, 
Veronica; the primrose pale, and mild ; — 

Of charms (of which to speak no tongue is able) 

Intercommunion incommunicable! 

I had a cottage in a Paradise! 

'Twere hard to enumerate the charms combin'd 
Within the little space, greeting the eyes, 

Its unpretending precincts that confin'd. 
Onward, in front, a mountain stream did rise 

Up, whose long course the fascinated mind 
(So apt the scene to awaken wildest themes) 
Might localize the most romantic dreams. 

When winter torrents, by the rain and snow. 
Surlily dashing down the hills, were fed. 

Its mighty mass of waters scem'd to flow 
With deafening course precipitous ; its bed 



Lloyd's poems. 263 

Rocky, such steep declivities did show 

That towards us with a rapid course it sped, 
Broken by frequent falls ; thus did it roam 
In whirlpools eddying, and convulsed with foam. 

Flank'd were its banks with perpendicular rocks, 
Whose scars enormous, sometimes gray and bare. 

And sometimes clad with ash and gnarled oaks, 
The birch, the hazel, pine, and holly, were. 

Their tawny leaves, tlie sport of winters' shocks. 
Oft o'er its channel circled in the air; 

While, on their tops, and midway up them, seen, 

Lower'd cone-like firs and yews in gloomiest green. 

So man}' voices from this river came 

In summer, winter, autumn, or the spring; 
So many sounds accordant to each frame 

Of Nature's aspect, (whether the storm's wing 
Brooded on it, or pantingly, and tame. 

The low breeze crisp'd its waters) tliat, to sing 
Half of their tones, impossible I or tell 
The listener's feelings from their viewless spell. 

When fires gleam'd bright, and when the curtain'd room, 
Well stock'd with books and music's implements, 

When children's faces, dress'd in ail the bloom 
Of innocent enjoj'ments, deep content's 

Deepest delight inspir'd; when nature's gloom 
To the domesticated heart presents 

(By consummate tranquillity possesst) 

Contrast, tliat might have stirr'd the dullest breast; 

Yes, — in such hour as that — thy voice I've known. 

Oh, hallow'd stream! — fitly so nam'd — (since tones 
Of deepest melancholy swell'd upon 

The breeze that bore it) — fearful as the groans 
Of fierce night spirits! Yes, when tapers shone 

Athwart the room (when, from their skiey thrones 
Of ice-piled height abrupt, rush'd rudely forth. 
Riding the blast, the tempests of the North;) 

Thy voice I've known to wake a dream of wonder I 
For though 'twas loud, and wild with turbulence, 

And absolute as is the deep-voiced thunder. 
Such fine gradations mark'd its diff'erence 

Of audibility, one scarce could sunder 

Its gradual swellings from the influence ] 

Of harp ^olian, when, upon the breeze. 

Floats in a stream its plaintive harmonies. 



264 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

One might have thought, that spirits of the air 

Warbled amid it in an undersong ; 
And oft one might liave thought, tliat shrieks were there 

Of spirits, driven for chastisement along 
The invisible regions that above earth are. 

All species seem'd of intonation (strong 
To bind the soul, Imagination rouse,) 
Conjur'd from preternatural prison-house. 

But when the heavens are blue, and summer skies 
Are pictur'd in thy wave's cerulean glances; 

Then thy crisp stream its course so gaily plies, 
Trips on so merrily in endless dances. 

Such low sweet tone, fit for the time, does rise 
From thy swift course, methinks, that it enhances 

The hue of flowers which decorate thy banks. 

While each one's freshness seems to pay thee thanks. 

Solemn the mountains that the horizon close, 

From whose drear verge thou seem'st to issue forth : 

Sorcer)' might filly dwell, one could suppose, 

(Or any wondrous spell of heaven or earth, * 

Which e'en to name man's utterance not knows,) 
Amid the forms that mark thy place of birth. 

Thither direct your eye, and you will find 

All that excites the imaginative mind I 

The tale of Titus and Gisippus which follows, while it is 
very interesting as a stoiy, exhibits the same gi'eat intel- 
lectual power and ceaseless activity of thought, wliich cha- 
racterize the Thoughts in London. Mr. Lloyd has taken 
the common incident of one lover resigning his mistress to 
another, and the names of his chief characters from Boc- 
caccio, but in all other respects, the poem is original. Its 
chief peculiarity is the manner in which it reasons upon all 
the emotions which it portrays, especially on the progress of 
love in the soul, with infinite nicety of discrimination, not 
unlike that which Shakspeare has manifested in liis amatory 
poems. He accoimts for the finest shade of feeling, and 
analyzes its essence, with the same care, as though he were 
demonstrating a proposition of Euclid. He is as minute in 
his delineation of all the variations of the heart, as Richardson 
was in his narratives of matters of fact ; — and, like him, thus 
throws such an air of truth over his statements, that we can 
scarcely avoid receiving them as authentic history. At the 



Lloyd's poems. 265 

same time, he conducts this process with so delicate a hand, 
and touches his subjects with so deep a reverence for hu- 
manity, that he teaches us to love our nature the more from 
his masterly dissection. By way of example of these re- 
marks, we will give part of the scene between a lover who 
long has secretly been agitated by a passion for the bdtrothed 
mistress of his friend, and the object of his silent affection 
whom he has just rescued from a watery grave — though it 
is not perhaps the most beautiful passage of the poem : 

He is on land ; on safe land is he come : 

Sophronia's head he pillows on a stone: 
A death-like paleness hath usurp'd her blooui ; 

Her head falls lapsing on his shoulder. None 
Were there to give liim aid ! he fears her doom 

Is scal'd for evermore ! At last a groan 
Burst from her livid lips, and then the word 
" Titus" he heard, or fancied that he heard ! — 

Where was he then ? From death to life restor'd I 
From hell to heaven I To rapture from despair I 

His hand he now lays on that breast ador'd ; 

And now her pulse he feels; and now — (beware, 

Beware, rash youth !) his lips draw in a hoard 

Of perfume from her lips, which though they were 

Still clos'd, yet oft the inarticulate sigh. 

Issuing from tiiencc, he drank with ecstasy. 

Still were they cold ; her hands were also cold ; 

Those hands he chaf'd, and, perhaps to restore 
To her chill paly lips their warmth, so bold 

He grew, he kiss'd those pale lips o'er and o'er. 
Nay, to revive in their most perfect mould 

Their wonted rubeous hue, he dared do more ; — 
He glued his mouth to them, and breath'd his breatii 
To die with her, or rescue her from death. — 

Thou art undone, mad youth ! The fire of love 

Burn'd so intensely in his throbbing veins, 
That, had she been a statue, he might prove 

A new Pygmalion, and the icy chains 
Of death defy. Well then might he remove 

The torpor which her o'er-wrought frame sustains. — 
J.^ sweet, revival from such menaced death; 
More sweet, revival by a lover's breath I , 

23* 



266 talfourd's miscellaneous -writincs. 

She feels the delicate influence through her thrill, 
And with seal'd eye lay in a giddy trance, 

Scarce dare she open them, when had her will 
On this been bent, she felt the power to glance 

Their lights on hiin. No, with a lingering skill — 
Oh, blame her not! — she did awhile enhance 

The bliss of that revival, by a feign'd 

Or half feign'd show of conflict still sustain'd. 

At last, she look'd I — They looked ! — Eye met with eye ! 

The whole was told ! The lover, and the lov'd, 
The ador'd, and the adorer, ecstasy 

Never till then experienced — swiftly proved ! — 
Thanks for his aid were a mean courtesy ! 

They were forgotten ! Transport unreproved, 
This was his guerdon ; this his rich reward ! 
An hour's oblivion with Sophronia shared I 

Then all the world was lost to them, in one 

Fulness of unimaginable bliss! — 
Infinity was with them I and the zone 

Unbound whence Venus sheds upon a kiss 
Nectareous essences, and raptures known 

Ne'er save to moments unprepar'd as this ! 
And in that earnest impulse did they find 
Peace and intensity, alike combin'd! 

To frame such joy, these things are requisite; 

A lofty nature ; the exalting stress 
Of stimulating trials; which requite, 

And antecedent sorrows, doubly bless. 
Consummate sympathies, which souls unite; 

And a conjuncture, whence no longer press 
Impulses — long as these delights we prove — 
From one tlijng foreign to the world of love. 

This could not last! Not merely would a word; — 
A gesture would, a look, dissolve the charm ! — 

Could home be mention'd nor the thought restor'd. 
To her remembrance of Gisippus' warm 

And manly love? Bless'd be ye with your hoard 
Of transient bliss, and be ye safe from harm, 

Ye fond, fond pair ! But think not joys so high 

Can be inwoven with reality ! 

At Inst a swift revulsion through her frame 

And o'er her countenance stole : a sudden pause! 



Lloyd's poems. 267 

Her eyes, which had imbib'd a pieicingf flame, 

Fell at once rayless ; and her bosom draws 
One in pent sigh; one look imploring came 

O'er her fine face ! Titus knew well the cause 
Of this so sudden change: he dared not speak ; 
He dared not move; dared not its reason seek I 

Some minutes they were silent. Night advanced ; 

Titus towards himself, Sophronia press'd, 
But dumb he stood; upward she faintly glanced 

A look upbraiding, and upon his breast — 
Gently reclining — lay like one entranced I 

No longer was happiness her guest. 
She starts ! She cries "GisippusI" all is told I 
Cold fell the word, on bosoms still more cold I 

They rose and crept along in silentness — 

Sophronia reach'd her home, but nothing said, 

E'en to her mother, of her past distress. 

Her threshold past not Titus — Thence he fled. 

Soon as in safety he the maid did guess. 

Like to a madman madden'd more with dread I 

Nor ever of this night, or of its spell 

Of mighty love, did he breathe a syllable I 

We now take leave of Mr. Lloyd with peculiar gratitude 
for the.' rich materials for thouglit with which a perusal of his 
poems has endowed us. We shall look for his next appear- 
,ance before the public with anxiety; — assured that his 
powers are not even yet fully developed to the world, and 
that he is destined to occupy a high station among the finest 
.spirits of his age. 



268 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 



MR. OLDAKER ON MODERN IMPROVE- 
MENTS. 

[New Monthly Magazine.] 

Mr. Editor. I trust that, even in this age of improvement 
you will suffer one of the oldest of the old school to occupy 
a small space in your pages. A few words respecting my- 
self will, however, be necessary to apologize for my opinions. 
Once I was among the gayest and sprightliest of youthful 
aspirants for fame and fortune. Being a second son, I was 
bred to the bar, and pursued my studies with great vigour 
and eager hope, in the Middle Temple. I loved, too, one of 
the fairest of her sex, and was beloved in return. My toils 
were sweetened by the delightful hope that they would pro- 
cure me an income sufficient for the creditable support of 
the mistress of my soul. Alas ! at the very moment when 
the unlooked-for devise of a large estate from a distant rela- 
tive gave^ me affluence, she for whom alone I desired 
wealth, sunk under the attack of a fever into the grave. Re- 
ligion enabled me to bear her loss with firmness, but I deter- 
mined, for her sake, ever to remain a bachelor. Although 
composed and tranquil, I felt myself unable to endure the 
forms, or to taste the pleasures of London. I retired to my 
estate in the country, where I have lived for almost forty 
years in the society of a maiden sister, happy if an old friend 
came for a few days to visit me, but chiefly delighting to 
cherish in silence the remembrance of my only love, and to 
anticipate the time when I shall be laid beside her. At last, 
a wish to settle an orphan nephew in my own profession, 
has compelled me to visit the scenes of my early days, and 
to mingle, for a short time, with the world. My resolution 



MODERN IMPROVEMENTS. 2G9 

once taken, I felt a melancholy pleasure in the expectation of 
seeing the places with which I was once familiar, and which 
were ever linked in my mind with sweet and blighted hope. 
Every change has been to ine as a shock. I have looked at 
large on society too, and there I see little in brilliant innova- 
tion to admire. Returned at last to my own fire-side, I sit 
down to throw together a few thoughts on the new and 
boasted Improvements, over which I mouni. If I should 
seem too querulous, let it be remembered, that my own happy 
days are long past, and that recollection is the sole earthly 
joy which is left me. 

My old haunts have indeed suffered comparatively small 
mutation. The princely hall of the Middle Temple has the 
same venerable aspect as when, in my boyish days, I felt 
my heart beating with a strange feeling of mingled pride and 
reverence on becoming one of its members. The fountain 
yet plays among the old trees, which used to gladden my 
eye in spring for a few days with their tender green, to be- 
come so prematurely desolate. But the fi-ont of the Inner 
Temple hall, upon the terrace, is sadly altered for the worse. 
When I first knew it, the noble solidity of its appearance, es- 
pecially of the figure over the gateway, cut massively in the 
stone, carried the mind back into the deep antiquity of the 
scene. Now the whole building is white- washed and plastered 
over, the majestic entrance supplied by an arch of pseudo- 
gothic, and a new library added at vast cost in the worst taste 
of the modern antique. The view from the garden is spoiled 
by that splendid nuisance, the Waterloo Bridge. Formerly 
we used to enjoy the enormous bend of the river, far fairer 
than the most marvellous work of art ; and while our eyes 
dwelt on the placid mirror of water, our imagination went 
over it, through cabn and majestic windings, into sweet rural 
scenes, and far inland bowers. Now the river appears only 
an oblong lake, and the feeling of the country once let into 
the town by that glorious avenue of crystal, is shut out by 
a noble piece of mere human workmanship ! But nature 
never changes, and some of her humble works are ever found 
to renew old feelings within us, notwithstanding the sportive 
changes of mortal fancy. The short grass of the Temple 
garden is the same as when forty years ago I was accus- 
tomed to refresh my weary eyes with its greenness. There 



270 talfourd's miscellaneous "writings. 

I have strolled again ; and while I bent my head downwards, 
and fixed my eyes on the thin blades and the soft daisies, I 
felt as I had felt when last I walked there — all between was 
as nothing, or a feverish dream — and I once more dreamed 
of the Seals, and of the living Sophia ! — I felt — but I dare 
not trust myself on tliis subject farther. 

The profession of the law is strangely altered since the 
days of my youth. It was then surely more liberal, as well 
as more rational, than I now find it. The business and 
pleasure of a lawyer were not entii'ely separated, as at pre- 
sent, when the first is mere toil, and the second lighter than 
vanity. The old stout-hearted pleaders threw a jovial life 
into their tremendous drudgeries, wliich almost rendered 
them delightflil. Wine did but open to them the most 
curious intricacies of their art : they rose fi'om it, like giants 
refreshed, to grapple with the sternest difficulties, and re- 
joiced in the encounter. Their powers caught a glow in the 
severity of the struggle, almost like that arising fi-om sti'ong 
exertion of the bodily fi'ame. Nor did they disdain to enjoy 
the quaint jest, the far-fetched allusion, or the antique fancy, 
which sometimes craftily peeped out on them amidst their 

laborious researches. Poor T W was one of the 

last of the race. He was the heartiest and most romantic of 
special pleaders. Thrice happy was the attorney who could 
engage him to a steak or broiled fowl in the old coffee-room 
in Fleet-sti'eet, where I have often met him. How would he 
then dilate, in the warmth of his heart, on aU his professional 
triumphs — now chuckling over the faU of a brother into a 
trap set artfully for hitn in the fair guise of liberal pleading 
— now whispering a joy past joy in a stumble of the Lord 
Chief Justice himself, among the filmy cords drawn about his 
path ! When the first bottle was despatched, arrived the 
time for his wary host to produce his papers in succession, 
to be drawn or settled by the joyous pleader. The well- 
lauded inspu'ation of a poet is not more genuine than that 
with which he then was gifted. All his nice discernment — 
all his vast memory — all his skill in drawing analogies and 
discerning principles in the " great obscurity" of the Year 
Books — were set in rapid and unerring action. On he went 
— covering page after page, his pen " in giddy mazes run- 
ning," and his mind growing subtler and more acute witli 



MODERN IMPROVEMENTS. 271 

every glass. How dextrously did he then glide through all 
the strange windings of the case, with a sagacity which 
never failed, while he garnished his discourse with many a 
legal pun and learned conceit, which was as the light bubble 
on the deep stream of his knowledge ! He is gone ! — and I 
find none to resemble him in this generation — none who 
thus can put a spirit into their work, which may make cob- 
web-sophistries look golden, and change a laborious life into 
one long holiday ! 

In the greater world, I have observed with sorrow, a pre- 
vailing disregard of the past, and a desire to extol the pre- 
sent, or to expatiate in visionary prospects of the future. I 
fear this may be traced not so much to philanthropy as to 
self-love, which inspires men with the wish personally to dis- 
tinguish themselves as the teachers and benefactors of their 
species, instead of resting contented to share in the vast stock 
of recollections and sympathies which is common to all. 
They would fain persuade us that mankind, created, " a little 
lower than the angels," is now for the first time " crowned 
with glory and honour ;" and they exultingly point to insti- 
tutions of yesterday for the means to regenerate the earth. 
Some, for example, pronounce the great mass of the people, 
through all ages, as scarcely elevated above the brutes which 
perish, because the arts of reading, writing, and arithmetic, 
were not commonly diffused among them ; and on the dif- 
fusion of these they ground their predictions of a golden age. 
And were there then no virtuous hardihood, no guileless in- 
nocence, no affections stronger than the grave, in that mighty 
lapse of years which we contemptuously stigmatize as dark ■? 
Are disinterested patriotism, conjugal love, open-handed hos- 
pitality, meek self-sacrifice, and chivalrous contempt of danger 
and of death, modern inventions ] Has man's great birth- 
right been in abeyance even until now ] Oh, no ! The 
Chaldeean shepherd did not cast his quiet gaze through 
weeks and years in vain to the silent skies. He knew not, 
indeed, the discoveries of science, which have substituted an 
immense variety of figures on space and distance, for the 
sweet influences of the stars ; yet did the heavens tell to him 
the glory of God, and angel faces smile on him from the 
golden clouds. Book-learnilig is, perhaps, the least part of 
the education of the species. Nature is the mightiest and 



272 talfourd's miscellaneous writings, 

the kindliest of teachers. The rocks and unchanging hills 
give to the heart the sense of a duration beyond that of the 
perishable body. The flowing stream images to the soul an 
everlasting continuity of tranquil existence. "The brave 
o'er-hanging firmament," even to the most rugged svi^ain, 
imparts some consciousness of the universal brotherhood of 
those over whom it hangs. The affections ask no leave of 
the understanding to " glow and spread and kindle," xo shoot 
through all the frame a tremulous joy, or animate to holiest 
constancy. We taste the dearest blessedness of earth in our 
childhood, before we have learned to express it in mortal 
language. Life has its universal lessons far beyond human 
lore. Kindness is as cheering, sorrow as purifymg, and the 
aspect of death as softening to the ignorant in this world's 
wisdom, as to the scholar. The purest delights grow be- 
neath our feet, and all who wiU stoop may gather them. 
While sages lose the idea of the Universal Parent in their 
subtleties, the lowly " feel after Him and find Him." Senti- 
ment precedes reason in point of time, and is a surer guide 
to the noblest realities. Thus man hopes, loves, reveres, and 
enjoys, without the aid of writing or of the press to inspire 
or direct him. Many of his feelings are even heartier and 
nioi'e genuine before he has learned to describe them. He 
does not perpetually mistake words for tlmigs, nor cultivate 
his faculties and affections for a discerning public. His aspi- 
rations " are raised, not marked." If he is gifted with divine 
imagmation, he may " walk in glory and in joy beside his 
plough upon the mountain side," without the chilling idea 
that he must make the most of his sensations to secure the 
applause of gay saloons or crowded theatres. The deepest 
impressions are worn out by the multiplication of their copies. 
Talking has almost usurped the place of acting and of feel- 
ing ; and the world of authors seem as though their hearts 
were but paper scrolls, and ink, instead of blood, were flow- 
ing in their veins. " The great events with which old story 
rings, seem vain and hollow." If all these evDs will not be 
extended by what is falsely termed the Education of the 
Poor, let us at least be on our guard lest we transform our 
peasantry from men into critics, teach them scorn instead 
of humble hope, and leave them nothing to love, to revere, 
or to enjoy ! 



MODERN IMPROVEMENTS. 273 

The Bible Society, founded and supported, no doubt, from 
the noblest motives, also puts forth pretensions which are 
sickening. Its advocates frequently represent it as destined 
to change all earth into a paradise. That a complete triumph 
of the principles of the Bible would bring in the happy state 
which they look for can never be disputed ; but the history 
of our religion affords no ground for anticipating such a re- 
sult from the unaided perusal of its pages. Deep and exten- 
sive impressions of the truths of the Gospel have never been 
made by mere reading, but always by the exertions of living 
enthusiasm in the holy cause. Providence may, indeed, in 
its inscrutable wisdom, impart new energy to particular 
instruments; but there appears no sufficient indication of 
such a change as shall make the printed Bible alone the 
means of regenerating the species. " An age of Bibles" may 
not be an age of Christian charity and hope. The word of 
God may not be revered the more by becoming a common 
book in every cottage, and a drug in the shop of every pawn- 
broker. It was surely neither known nor revered the less 
when it was a rare treasure, when it was proscribed by 
those who sat in high places, and its torn leaves and frag- 
ments were cherished even unto death. In those days, when 
a single copy chained to the desk of the church was alone in 
extensive parishes, did it diffuse less sweetness through rustic 
hearts than now, when the poor are almost compelled to 
possess it 1 How then did tlie villagers flock from distant 
farms, cheered in their long walks by thoughts not of this 
world, to converse for a short hour with patriarchs, saints, 
and apostles ! How did tliey devour the veneralile and well 
worn page with tearful eyes, or listen delighted to the voice 
of one gifted above his fellows, who read aloud the oracles 
of celestial wisdom ! What ideas of the Bible must they 
have enjoyed, who came many a joyful pilgrimage to hear 
or to read it ! Yet even more precious was the enjoyment 
of those Avho, in times of persecution, snatched glances iii 
secret at its pages, and thus entered, as by stealth, into the 
paradisiacal region, to gather immortal fruits and listen to 
angel voices. The word of God was dearer to them than 
house, land, or the " ruddy drops which warmed their hearts." 
Instead of the lamentable weariness and disgust with which the 
young now too often turn from the perusal of the Scriptures, 
24 



274 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

they heard with mute attention and serious joy the histories 
of the Old Testament and the parables of the New. They 
heard with revering sympathy of Abraham receiving seraphs 
unawares — of Isaac walking out at even-tide to meditate, 
and meeting the holy partner of his days — of Jacob's dream, 
and of that immortal Syrian Shepherdess, for whose love he 
served a hard master fourteen years, which seemed to him 
but a few days — of Joseph the beloved, the exUe, the tempted, 
and the forgiver — of aU the wonders of the Jewish story — 
and of the character and suffeiings of the Messiah. These 
things were to them at once august realities, and surrounded 
with a dream-like glory from afar. " Heaven lay about them 
in their infancy." They preserved the purity — the spirit of 
meek submission — the patient confiding love of their child- 
hood in their maturest years. They, in their turn, instilled 
the sweetness of Christian charity, drop by drop, into the 
liearts of their offspring, and left their example as a deathless 
legacy. Surely tliis was better than the dignified patronage 
now courted for the Scriptures, or the pompous eulogies pro- 
nounced on them by rival orators ! The reports of anniver- 
saries of the Bible Society are often to me, inexpressibly 
nauseous. The word of God is praised in the style of eulogy 
employed on a common book by a friendly reviewer. It is 
evidently used as a theme to declaim on. But the praise of 
the Bible is almost overshadowed by the flatteries lavished 
on the nobleman or county member who has condescended 
to preside, and which it is the highest ambition of the speakers 
ingeniously to introduce and to vary. Happy is he who can 
give a new turn to the compliment, or invent a new allitera- 
tion or antithesis for the occasion ! The copious nonsense 
of the successful orators is even more painful than the failures 
of the novices. After a string of false metaphors and poor 
conceits, applauded to the echo, the meeting are perhaps called 
on to sympathize with some unhappy debutant, whose sense 
of the virtues of the chairman proves too vast for his powers 
of expression; and with Miss Peachum in the Beggars' 
Opera, to lament " that so noble a youth should come to an 
untimely end." Alas ! these exhibitions have little connexion 
with a deep love of the Bible, or with real pity for the suffer- 
ings of man. Were religious tyranny to render the Scrip- 
tures scarce, and to forbid their cii'culation, they would 



MODERN IMPROVEMENTS. 275 

speedily be better prized and honoured than when scattered 
with gorgeous profusion, and lauded by nobles and princes. 

The Society for the Suppression of Mendicity is another 
boasted institution of these cold-hearted days. It would an- 
nihilate the race of beggars, and remove from the delicate 
eye the very form and aspect of misery. Strange infatua- 
tion ! as if an old class of the great family of man might be 
cut off without harm ! " All are but parts of one stupen- 
dous whole," bound together by ties of antique sympathy, 
of which the lowest and most despised are not without their 
uses. In striking from society a race whom we have, from 
childhood, been accustomed to observe, a vast body of old 
associations and gentle thoughts must necessarily be lost for 
ever. The poor mendicants whom we would banish from 
the earth, are the best sinecurists to whose sustenance we 
conti'ibute. In the great science — the science of humanity — 
they not rarely are our first teachers : they affectingly remind us 
of our own state of mutual dependance ; bring sorrow palpa- 
bly before the eyes of the prosperous and the vain ; and 
prevent the hearts of many from utterly " losing theii' na- 
ture." They give, at least, a salutary disturbance to gross 
selfishness, and hinder it from entirely formmg an ossified 
crust about the soul. We see them too with gentle interest, 
because we have always seen them, and were accustomed 
to relieve them in the spring-time of our days. And if some 
of them are what the world calls impostors, and literally 
" do beguile us of our tears " and our alms, those tears are 
not shed, nor those alms given, in vain. If they have even 
their occasional revellings and hidden luxuries, we should 
rather rejoice to believe that happiness has every where its 
nooks and corners which we do not see ; that there is more 
gladness in the earth than meets the politician's gaze ; and 
that fortune has her favours, " secret, sweet, and precious," 
even for those on whom she seems most bitterly to Grown. 
Well may that divinest of philosophers, Shakspeare, make 
Lear reply to his daughters, who had been speaking in the 
true spirit of modern improvements : 

"O reason not the need: our basest beggars 
Are in the poorest thing superfluous: 
Allow not nature more than nature necds^ 
Man's life is cheap as beasts I" 



276 talfourd's miscellaneous "writings. 

There are many other painfbl instances in these times of 
that " restless wisdom " which " has a broom for ever in its 
hand to rid the world of nuisances." There are, for exam- 
ple, the plans of Mr. Owen, with his infallible recipes for the 
formation of character. Virtue is not to be forced in artifi- 
cial hot-beds, as he proposes. Rather let it spring up where 
it will from the seed scattered throughout the earth, and rise 
hardly in sun and shower, while the " free mountain winds 
have leave to blow against it." But I feel that I have already 
broken too violently on my habits of dreamy thought, by 
the asperity into which I now and then have fallen. Let me 
then break off at once, with the single expression of a hope, 
that this " bright and breathing world " may not be changed 
into a Penitentiary by the efforts of modern reformers. 
I am, Sir, 

your hearty well-wisher, 

FRANCIS OLDAKER. 



A CHAPTER ON " TIME." 27T 



A CHAPTER ON « TIME." 

BEING AN ATTEMPT TO THROW NEW LIGHT ON AN OLD SUBJECT. 

[New Monthly Magazine.] 

" We know what we are," said poor Ophelia, " but we 
know not what we may be." Perhaps she would have 
spoken with a nicer accuracy had she said, " we know what 
we have been." Of our present state we can strictly speak- 
ing, know nothing. The act of meditation on ourselves, 
however quick and subtle, must refer to the past, in which 
alone we can truly be said to live. Even in the moments of 
intensest enjoyment, our pleasures are multiplied by the 
quick-revolving im.ages of thought ; we feel the past and fu- 
ture in each fragment of the instant, even as the flavour of 
every drop of some delicious liquid is heightened and pro- 
longed on the lips. It is the past only which we really en- 
joy as soon as we become sensible of duration. Each by- 
gone instant of delight becomes rapidly present to us, and 
" bears a glass wliich shows us many more." This is the 
great privilege of a meditative being — never properly to have 
any sense of the present, but to feel the great realities as 
they pass away, casting their delicate shadows on the fu- 
ture. 

Time, then, is only a notion — unfelt in its passage — a 
mere measure given by the mind to its own past emotions. 
Is there, then, any abstract common measure by which the 
infinite variety of intellectual acts can be meted — any real 
passage of years which is the same to all — any periodical 
revolution, in which all who have lived, have lived out 
equal hours T Is chronology any other than a fable, a " tale 

24* 



278 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

that is told 1" Certain outward visible actions have passed, 
and certain seasons have rolled over them; but has the 
common idea of time, as applicable to these, any truth higher 
or surer than those infinite varieties of duration which have 
been felt by each single heart 1 Who shall truly count the 
measm-e of his own days — much more scan the real life of 
the miUions around him ] 

The ordinary language of moralists respecting time shows 
that we reaUy know nothing respecting it. They say that 
life is fleeting and short ; why, humanly speaking, may they 
not as well affirm that it is extended and lasting] The 
words " short " and " long " have only meaning when used 
comparatively ; and to what can we compare or liken this 
our human existence] The images of fragility — thin va- 
pours, delicate flowers, and shadows cast from the most 
fleeting things — which we employ as emblems of its transi- 
tortness, really serve to exhibit its durability as great in 
comparison with their own. If life is short, compared with 
the age of some fine animals, how much longer is it than that of 
many, some of whom pass through all the varieties of youth, 
maturity, and age, during a few hours, according to man's 
reckoning, and, if they are endowed mith memory, look back, 
on theii' early minutes through the long vista of a summer's 
day ! An antediluvian shepherd might complain with as. 
much apparent reason of the brevity of his nine hundred 
years, as we of our three score and ten. He would find as 
little to confute or to establish his theory. There is no- 
thing visible by which we can fairly reckon the measure 
of our lives. It is not just to compare them with the dura- 
tion of rocks and hills, which have withstood " a thousand 
storms, a thousand thunders ;" because where there is no 
consciousness, there is really no time. The power of imagi- 
nation supplies to us the place of ages. We have thoughts 
which " date beyond the pyramids." Antiquity spreads 
around us her mighty wings. We live centuries in con- 
templation, and have all the sentiment of six thousand years 
in our memories : — 

" The wars we too remember of King' Nine^ 
And old Absaracus and Ibjcus divine," 



A CHAPTER ON " TIME." 279 

WliCnce then the prevalent feeling of the brevity of our 
life ? Not, assuredly, from its comparison with any thing 
which is presented to our senses. It is only because the 
mind is formed for eternity that it feels the shortness of its 
earthly sojourn. Seventy years, or seventy thousand, or 
seven, shared as the common lot of a species, would seem 
alike sufficient to those who had no sense within them of a 
being which should have no end. When this sense has been 
weakened, as it was amidst all the exquisite forms of Grecian 
mythology, the brevity of life has been forgotten. There is 
scarcely an allusion to this general sentiment, so deep a 
spring of the pathetic, throughout all the Greek tragedies. 
It will be found also to prevail in individuals in proportion as 
they meditate on themselves, or as they nurse in solitude and 
silence the instinct of the Eternal. 

The doctrine that Time exists only in remembrance, may 
serve to explain some apparent inconsistencies in the lan- 
guage which we use respecting our sense of its passage. We 
hear persons complaining of the slow passage of time, when 
they have spent a single night of unbroken wearisomeness, 
and wondering how speedily hours, filled with pleasure or 
engrossing occupations, have flown ; and yet we all know 
how long any period seems which has been crowded with 
events or feelings leaving a strong impression behind them. 
In thinking on seasons of ennui we have nothing but a sense 
of length— we merely remember that we felt the tedium of 
existence ; but there is really no space in the imagination 
filled up by the period. Mere time, unpeopled with "diversi- 
fied emotions or circumstances, is but one idea, and that idea 
is nothing more than the remembrance of a listless sensation. 
A night of dull pain and months of lingeiing weakness are, 
in the retrospect, nearly the same thing. When our hands 
or our hearts are busy, we know nothing of time— it does 
not exist for us ; but as soon as we pause to meditate on 
that which is gone, we seem to have lived long, because we 
look back through a long series of events, or feel them at 
once peering one above the other like ranges of distant hills. 
Actions or feelings, not hours, mark all the" backward course 
of our being. Our sense of the nearness to us of any cir- 
cumstance in our life is determined on the same principles— 
not by the revolution of the seasons, but by the relation which 



280 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

the event bears in importance to all that has happened 
to us since. To him who has thought, or done, or suf- 
fered much, the level days of his childhood seem at an im- 
measurable distance, far off as the age of chivalry, or as the 
line of Sesostris. There are some recollections of such over- 
powering vastness, that their objects seem ever near ; their 
size reduces all intermediate events to nothing ; and they 
peer upon us like " a forked mountain, or blue promonitory," 
which, being far off, is yet nigh. How different from these 
appears some inconsiderable occurrence of more recent date, 
which a flash of thought redeems for a moment from long 
oblivion ; — which is seen amidst the dim confusion of half- 
forgotten things, like a little rock lighted up by a chance 
gleam of sunshine afar in the mighty waters ! 

What immense difference is there, then, in the real dura- 
tion of men's lives ! He lives longest of all who looks back 
oftenest, whose life is most populous of thought or action, and 
on every retrospect makes the vastest picture. The man 
who does not meditate has no real consciousness of being. 
Such a one goes to death as to a drunken sleep ; he parts 
with existence wantonly, because he knows nothing of its 
value. Mere men of pleasure are, therefore, the most careless 
of duellists, the gayest of soldiers. To know the true value of 
being, yet to lay it down for a great cause, is a pitch of hero- 
ism which has: rarely been attained by man. That mastery 
of the fear of death which is so common among men of spirit, 
is nothing but a conquest over the apprehension of dying. 
It is a mere victory of nerve and muscle. Those whose days 
have no principle of continuity — who never feel time but in 
the shape of ennui — may quit the world for sport or for ho- 
nour. But he who truly lives, who feels the past and future 
in the instant, whose days are to him a possession of majestic 
remembrances and golden hopes, ought not to fancy himself 
bound by such an example. He may be inspired to lay 
down his life, when truth or virtue shall demand so great a 
sacrifice ; but he wUi be influenced by mere weakness of re- 
solution, not by courage, if he suffer himself to be shamed, 
or laughed, or worried out of it ! 

Besides those who have no proper consciousness of being, 
there are others even perhaps more pitiable, who are con- 
stantly irritated by the knowledge that their life is cut up into 



A CHAPTER ON " TIME." 2$! 

melancholy fragments. This is the case of all the pretending 
and the vain ; those who are ever attempting to seem what 
they are not, or to do what they cannot ; who live in the 
lying breath of contemporary report, and bask out a sort of 
occasional holiday in the glimmers of public favour. They 
are always in a feverish struggle, yet they make no progress. 
There is no dramatic coherence, no unity of action, in the 
tragi-comedy of their lives. They have hits and brilliant 
passages perhaps, which may come on review before them 
in straggling succession ; but nothing dignified or massive, 
tending to one end of good or evil. Such are self-fancied 
poets and panting essayists, who live on from volume to 
volume, or from magazine to magazine, who tremble with 
nervous delight at a favourable mention, are cast down by a 
sly alliteration or satirical play on their names, and die of an 
elaborate eulogy " in aromatic pain." They begin life once 
a quarter, or once a month, according to the will of their 
publishers. They dedicate nothing to posterity ; but toil on 
for applause till praise sickens, and their " life's idle business" 
grows too heavy to be borne. They feel their best days pass- 
ing away without even the effort to build up an enduring 
fame ; and they write an elegy on their own weaknesses ! 
They give their thoughts immaturely to the world, and thus 
spoil them for themselves for ever. Their own earliest, and 
deepest, and most sacred feelings become at last dull com- 
mon-places, which they have talked of and written about till 
they are glad to escape from the theme. Their days are 
not " linked each to each by natural piety," but at best bound 
together in forgotten volumes. Better, far better than this, is 
the lot of those whose characters and pretentions have little 
" mark of likelihood ;" — whose days are filled up by the ex- 
ercises of honest industry, and who, on looking back, recog- 
nise their lives only by the turns of their fortune, or the events 
which have called forth their affections. Their first parting 
from home is indelibly impressed on their minds — their 
school-days seem to them like one sweet April day of shower 
and sunshine— their apprenticeship is a long week of toil ; — 
but then their first love is fresh to them as yesterday, and 
their marriage, the births of their chUdren, and of their grand- 
children, are events which mark their course even to old age. 
They reach their infancy again in thought by an easy pro- 



282 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

cess, through a range of remembrances few and simple, but 
pure, and sometimes holy. Yet happier is the lot of those 
who have one great aim ; who devote their undivided energy 
to a single pursuit; who have one idea of practical or vision- 
ary good, to which they are wedded. There is a harmony, 
a proportion, in their lives. The Alchemist of old, labouring 
with imdiminished hope, cheering his solitude with dreams of 
boundless wealth, and yet working on, could not be said to 
live in vain. His life was continuous — one unbroken strug- 
gle — one ardent sigh. There is the same unity of interest 
in the life of a gi'eat verbal scholar, or of a true miser ; the 
same singleness of pmpose, which gives solidity to floating 
minutes, hours, and years. 

The great La^vyer deserves an eminent rank among true 
livers. We do not mean a political adventurer, who breathes 
feverishly .amidst the contests, the intrigues, and petty tri- 
imiphs of party ; nor a dabbler in criticism, poetry, or the 
drama ; nor even a popular nisi-prius advocate, who passes 
tlirough a succession of hasty toils and violent excitements 
to fortune and to oblivion. But we have respect to the real 
dull plodder — to him who has bidden an early " FareweU to 
his Muse," if he ever had one ; who anticipates years of soli- 
tary study, and shrinks not back ; who proceeds, step by 
step, through the mighty maze Mith a cheerful heart, and 
coimts on his distant success with mathematical precision. 
His industry and self denial are powers as true as fancy or 
eloquence, and he soon learns to take as heaity a pleasure 
in their exercise. His retrospect is vast and single — of 
doubts solved, stoutest books mastered, nicest webs disen- 
tangled, and all from one intelligible motive which grows old 
with him, and, though it " strengthened with his strength," wiU 
not diminish with his decline. It is better in the end to have 
had the pathway of life circiunscribed and railed in by forms 
and naiTow observances, than to have strayed at vnll about 
the vast field open to human enterprize, in the fi-eest and 
most graceful wanderings; because in the latter case we 
caiuiot trace our road again, or call it over ; while in the 
first, we see it distinctly to the end, and can linger in thought 
over aU the spots where our feet have trodden. The " old 
names" bring back the " old instincts" to our hearts. Instead 
of faint sympathies with a multitude of things, a kind of small 



A CHAPTER ON " TIxME." 283 

partnership with thousands in certam general dogmas and 
speculations, we have all our own past individual being as a 
solid and abiding possession. 

A metaphysician who thinks earnestly and intensely for 
himself, may truly be said to live long. He has this, great 
advantage over the most felicitous inventor of machinery, or 
the most acute of scientific inquirers, that all his discoveries 
have a personal interest ; he has his existence for his living 
study ; his own heart is the mighty problem on which he me- 
ditates, and the " exceeding great reward " of his victories. 
In a moment of happy thought he may attain conquests, " com- 
pared to which the lam-els which a Caesar reaps are weeds." 
Years of anxious thought are rewarded by the attainment 
of one triumphant certainty, which immediately gives a key 
to the solution of a thousand pregnant doubts and mysteries, 
and enables him almost to " curdle a long life into an hour." 
When he has, after long pursued and baffled endeavours, 
rolled aside some huge difficulty which lay in his path, he 
will find beneath it a passage to the bright subtleties of his 
nature, through which he may range at will, and gather im- 
mortal fruits, like Aladdin in the subterranean gardens. He 
counts his life thus not only by the steps which he has taken, 
but by the vast prospects which, at eveiy turn of his journey, 
have recompensed his toils, over which he has diffused his 
spirit as he went on his way rejoicing. We will conclude 
this article with the estimate made of life from his own expe- 
rience by one of the most profound and original of thinkers. 

" It is little, it is short, it is not worth having — if we take 
the last hour, and leave out all that has gone before, which 
has been one way of looking at the subject. Such calcula- 
tors seem to say that life is nothing when it is over; and that 
may, in their sense, be true. If the old rule — Respice finem. 
— were to be made absolute, and no one could be pronounced 
fortunate tDl the day of his death, there are few among us 
whose existence would, upon such conditions, be much to be 
envied. But this is not a fair view of the case. A man's life 
is his whole life, not the last glimmering snuff of the candle ; 
and this I say is considerable, and not a little matter, whether 
we regard its pleasures or its pains. To draw a peevish 
conclusion to the contrary, from our own superannuated de- 



284 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

sires or forgetful indifference, Is about as reasonable as to 
say, a man never was young because he has grown old, or 
never lived because he is now dead. The length or agree- 
ableness of a journey does not depend on the few last steps 
of it, nor is the size of a building to be judged of from the 
last stone that is added to it. It is neither the first nor the 
last hour of our existence, but the space that parts these two 
— not our exit, nor our entrance upon the stage, but what 
we do feel, and think while there — that we are to attend to 
in pronouncing sentence upon it. Indeed, it would be easy 
to show that it is the very extent of human life, the infinite 
number of things contained m it, its contradictory and fluctu- 
ating interests, the transition from one situation to another, the 
hours, months, years, spent in one fond pursuit after another ; 
that it is, in a word, the length of our common journey, and 
the quantity of events crowded into it, that, baffling the grasp 
of our actual perception, make it slide from our memory, 
and dwindle into nothing in its own perspective. It is too 
mighty for us, and we say it is nothing ! It is a speck in our 
fancy, and yet what canvass would be big enough to hold 
its striking groups, its endless objects 1 It is light as vanity ; 
and yet if all its weary moments, if all its head and heart- 
aches were compressed into one, what fortitude would not 
be overwhelmed with the blow ! What a huge heap, a ' huge, 
dumb heap,' of wishes, thoughts, feelings, anxious cares, 
soothing hopes, loves, joys, friendships, it is composed of! 
How many ideas and trains of sentiment, long, deep, and 
intense, often pass through the mind in one days thinking or 
reading for instance ! How many such days are there in a 
year, how many years in a long life, still occupied with 
something interesting — still recalling some old impression — 
still recurring to some difficult question, and making progress 
in it, every step accompanied with a sense of power, and 
every moment conscious of ' the high endeavour or the glad 
success ;" for the mind seizes only on that which keeps it 
employed, and is wound up to a certain pitch of pleasurable 
excitement by the necessity of its own nature." — HazliWs 
Table Talk, Essay 6. 



ON THE PROFESSION OP THE BAR. 285 



ON THE PROFESSION OF THE BAR. 

[London Magazine.] 

There is no pursuit in life which appears more captivating 
at a distance than the profession of the bar, as it is followed 
and rewarded in English courts of justice. It is the great 
avenue to political influence and reputation ; its honours are 
among the most splendid which can be attained in a free 
state ; and its emoluments and privileges are exhibited as 
prizes, to be contested freely by all its members. Its annals 
celebrate many individuals who have risen from the lowest 
ranks of the people, by fortunate coincidence, or by patient 
labour, to wealth and station, and have become the founders 
of honourable families. If the yoimg aspirant perceives, 
even in his hasty and sanguine glance, that something de- 
pends on fortuitous circumstances, the conviction only ren- 
ders the pursuit more inviting, by adding the fascinations of 
a game of chance to those of a trial of skill. If he is forced 
to confess that a sacrifice of principle is occasionally required 
of the candidate for its most lucrative situations, he glories 
in the pride of untempted virtue, and pictures himself gene- 
rously resisting the bribe which would give him riches and 
authority, in exchange for conscious rectitude and the appro- 
bation of the good and wise. While he sees nothing in the 
distance, but glorious success or more glorious seltdenial, he 
feels braced for the severest exertion ; nerved for the fiercest 
struggle ; and regards every throb of an impatient ambition, 
as a presage of victory. 

Not only do the high offices of the profession wear an in- 
viting aspect, but its level course has much to charm the in- 
experienced observer. It affords perpetual excitement ; keeps 
25 



286 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

the faculties in unceasing play ; and constantly applies re- 
search, ingenuity, and eloquence, to the actual business of life. 
A Comt of Nisi Prius is a sort of epitome of hmnan con- 
cerns, in which advocates are the representatives of the hopes 
and fears, the prejudices, the affections, and the hatreds of 
others, which stii* their blood, yet do not endanger their for- 
tune or their peace. The most impoitant interests are com- 
mitted to theu* discretion, and the most susceptible feelings to 
their forbearance. They enjoy a fearful latitude of sarcasm 
and invective, with an audience ready to admii*e their sallies, 
and reporters eager to circulate them tlii'ough the land. 
Theh' professional dress, which might else be ludicrous, be- 
comes formidable as the symbol of power ; for, with it, they 
assume the privilege of denoimcing theu* adversaries, con- 
founding ^^'itnesses, and withstanding the judge. If the mat- 
ter on wMch they expatiate is not often of a dignified nature or 
productive of large consequences, it is always of real impor- 
tance ; not a mere theme for display, or a parliamentary 
shadow. The men whom they addi-ess are usually open to 
I'eceive impressions, either fi'om declamation or reasoning, 
unlike other audiences who are guarded by system, by party, 
or by interest, against the access of conviction. They are 
not confined to rigid logic, or to scholastic sophistiy, but may 
appeal to eveiy prejudice, habit, and feeling, which can aid 
theii' cause or adorn their harangue ; and possess a large 
store of popular topics always ready for use. They do not 
contend for distant objects, nor vainly seek to awaken an in- 
terest for futurity, but stnaggle for palpable results which 
immediately follow their exertions. They play an animating 
game for verdicts with the resoiu'ces of others, in which sue- ' 
cess is full of pleasui'e, and defeat is rarely attended ^vith 
personal disgi'ace or injmy. This is their ordinary vocation ; 
but they have, or seem to have, a chance of putting forth aU 
the energies of their mind on some high issue ; and of vindi- 
cating their moral com'age, perchance by rescuing an inno- 
cent man from dishonour and the grave, or by standing, in 
a tumultuous season, between the fren2y of the people and 
the encroachments of their enemies, and protecting the con- 
stitutional rights of their fellows -with the sacred weapons of 
the laws. What dream is more inspiring to a youth of san- 
guine temperament than that of conducting the defence of a 



ON THE PROFESSION OF THE BAR. 287 

man prosecuted by the whole force of the state ] He runs 
over in thought the hurried and feverish labour of prepara- 
tion ; the agitations of the heart quelled by the veiy magni- 
tude of the endeavour and the peril ; and imagines himself 
settled and bent up to his own part in the day of trial — the 
low tremulous beginning, the gradually strengthening assu- 
rance ; the dawning recognition of sympathy excited in the 
men on whose lips the issue hangs; till the whole world 
of thought and feeling seems to open full of irresistible argu- 
ment and happy illustrations; till his reasonings become 
steeped in passion ; and he feels his cause and his triumph 
secure. To every enthusiastic boy, flattered by the prophe- 
cies of friends, such an event appears possible ; and, in the 
contemplation, wealth, honour, and long life, seem things of 
little value. 

But the state of anticipation cannot last for ever. The 
day aiTives, when the candidate for forensic opportunities 
and honours must assume the gown amidst the congi'atula- 
tions of liis fi'iends, and attempt to realize their wishes. The 
hour is, no doubt, happy, in spite of some intruding thoughts; 
its festivities are not less joyous, because they wear a colouring 
of solemnity ; it is one more season of hope snatched from fate, 
inviting the mind to bright remembrance, and rich in the honest 
assurances of affections and sympathy. It passes, however, 
as rapidly as its predecessors, and the morrow sees the youth 
at Westminster, pressmg a wig upon aching temples, and 
takmg a fearful survey of the awful bench where the judges 
sit, and the more awful benches crowded with competitors 
who have set out with as good hopes, who have been en- 
couraged by as enthusiastic friends, and who have as valid 
claims to success as he. Now then, having allowed him 
to enjoy the foretastes of prosperity, let us investigate what 
are the probabilities that he will realize tliem. Are they, in 
any degi-ee, proportioned to his intellectual powere and ac- 
complishments ! Is the possession of some share of the 
highest faculties of the mind, which has given him confi- 
dence, really in his favour? These questions we will tiy to 
solve. We may, perhaps, explain to the misjudging friends 
of some promising aspirant, who has not attained the emi- 
nence they expected, why their prophecies have been un- 
fulfilled. They think that, with such powers as they know 



288 



TALFOURD S MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS. 



him to possess, there must be some fault which they did 
not perceive; some want of industry, or perseverence ; but 
there was probably none; and they may rather seek for 
the cause of failure in the delicacy of feeling wliich won 
their sympathy, or in the genius which they were accus- 
tomed to admire. 

Men who take a cursory view of the profession are lia- 
ble to forget how peculiarly it is situated in relation to 
those who distribute its business. These are not the peo- 
ple at large; not even the factitious assemblage called the 
public; not scholars, nor readers, nor thinkers, nor admiring 
audiences, nor sages of the law, but simply attorneys. In 
this class of men are, of course, comprised infinite varieties of 
knowledge and of worth ; many men of sound learning and 
honourable character ; many who are tolerably honest and 
decorously dull; some who are acute and knavish; and 
more who are knavish without being acute. Respectable 
as is the station of attorneys, they are, as a body, greatly in- 
ferior to the bar in education and endowments ; and yet on 
their opinion, without appeal, the fate of the members of 
the profession depends. It can scarcely be matter of sur- 
prise that they do not always perceive, as by intuition, the 
accurate thinking, the delicate satire, the playful fancy, or 
the lucid eloquence, which have charmed a domestic circle, 
and obtained the applause of a college, even if these were 
exactly the qualities adapted to their purposes. They will 
never, indeed, continue to retain men who are obviously 
unequal to their duty; but they have a large portion of bu- 
siness to scatter, which numbers, greatly differing in real 
power, can do equally well; and some junior business, 
which hardly requii^es any talent at all. In some cases, 
therefore, they are viilually not only judges but patrons, 
who, by employing young men early, give them not merely 
fees, but courage, practice, and the means of becoming 
known to others. From this extraordinary position arises 
the necessity of the strictest etiquette in form, and the nicest 
honour in conduct, which strangers are apt to ridicule, but 
which alone can prevent the bar from being prostrated at 
the feet of an inferior class. But for that barrier of rule 
and personal behaviour, solicitors would be enabled to as- 
sume the language and manner of dictators ; and no bar- 



ON THE PR0FES3J0X OF THE BAR. 289 

rister could retain at once prosperity and self-respect, ex- 
cept the few, whose reputations for peculiar skill are so well 
established, as to render it indispensable to obtain their ser- 
vices. It is no small proof of the spLrit and intelligence of 
the profession, as a body, that these qualities are able to pre- 
serve them in a station of apparent superiority to those on 
whom they Airtually depend. They frequent the places of bu- 
siness ; they follow the judges from town to town, and ap- 
pear ready to undertake any side of any cause ; they sit to 
be looked at, and chosen, day after day, and year after 
year ; and yet by force of professional honour and gentle- 
manly accomplishments, and by these alone, they continue 
to be respected by the men who are to decide their destiny. 
But no rule of etiquette, however strict, and no feelings of 
delicacy, however nice and generous, can prevent a man, 
who has connexions among attorneys, from possessing a 
great advantage over his equals who have none. It is na- 
tural that his fi-iends should think highly of him, and desire 
to assist him, and it wovild be absurd to exi")ect that he 
should disappoint them by refusing their briefs, when con- 
scious of ability to do them justice. Hence a youth, born 
and educated in the middle ranks of life, who is able to strug- 
gle to the bar, has often a far better chance of speedy suc- 
cess than a gentleman of rank and family. Tlais conside- 
ration may lessen the wonder, so often expressed, at the 
number of men who have risen to eminence in the law from 
comparatively humble stations. Without industry and talent, 
they could have done little ; but, perhaps, with both these 
they might have done less, if their early fame had not been 
nurtured by those to whom their success was a favourite 
object, and whose zeal afforded them at once opportunity 
and stimulus which to more elevated adventurers are want- 
ing. 

Let us now examine a little the kind of talent by which 
success at the bar will most probably be obtained ; as, from 
want of attention to this point much disappointment fre- 
quently springs. We will first refer to the lower order of 
business — that by which a young man usually becomes 
known — and then take a glance at the Court of Nisi Prius, 
as it affords scope to the powers of leaders. We pass over 
at present that class of men who begin to practice as spe- 
25* 



290 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

cial pleaders, and after acquiring reputation, are called late 
in life with a number of clients who have learned to value 
them as they deserve. These have chosen a safe and ho- 
nourable coui'se ; but the general reader would find little to 
excite his interest in a view of their silent and laborious pro- 
gress. We speak rather of the business of Criminal Courts 
and of Sessions, in which young men generally make first trial 
of their powers, and of the more trivial and showy order of 
causes which it may sometimes be their good or ill fortune 
to lead. 

In this description of business, it must be obvious to every 
one that there is no scope for the higher powers and more 
elegant accomplishments of the mind. But it is not so ob- 
vious, though not less true, that these are often incumbrances 
in the way of the advocate. This wiU appear, if we glance 
at the kind of work he has to perform, the jury whom he is 
to influence, or the audience by whom he is surrounded. 
Even if the successful performance of his duty, without re- 
gard to appearances, be his only aim, he will often fibid it 
necessary to do something more painful than merely to lay 
aside his most refined tastes. To succeed with the jury, he 
must rectify his understanding to the level of theirs: to suc- 
ceed with the audience, he must necessarily go still lower ; 
because, although there are great common themes on which 
an advocate may raise almost any assembly to his own level, 
and there are occasions in which he may touch on universal 
sympathies, these rarely, if ever, arise in the beginning of his 
professional life. On those whom he has to impress, the fine 
allusion, the happy conceit, the graceful sophistry, which will 
naturally occur to his mind, would be worse than lost. But 
though he may abstain from these, how is he to find, on the 
inspiration of the instant, the matter which ought to supply 
their place ] Can he, accustomed to enjoy the most felicitous 
turns of expression, the airiest wit, the keenest satire, think 
in a moment of a joke sufficiently broad and stale to set the 
jury box and the galleries in a roar 1 Has he an instinctive 
sense of what they will admire] If not, he is wrong to 
wonder that he makes less impression than others, who may 
be better able to sacrifice the refinements which he prizes, and 
ought not to grudge them the success which faii'ly and na- 
turally follows their exertions. 



ON THE PROFESSION OF THE BAR. 291 

The chief duties of a junior are to examine witnesses ; to 
raise legal objections ; and, in smaller cases, to address juries. 
We will show in each of these instances how much a man 
of accurate perceptions and fastidious tastes must overcome 
before he can hope for prosperity. 

The examination of witnesses, in chief, generally requires 
little more than a clear voice, a tolerable degree of self- 
possession, a supeiiicial knowledge of the law of evidence, 
and an acquaintance with the matter to which the witnesses 
are expected to speak. There are critical cases, it is true, 
in which it is one of the most important duties which an 
advocate can perform, and requires all the dexterity and 
address of which he is master. But the more popular work, and 
that which most dazzles by-standers, is cross-examination, to 
which some men attribute the talismanic property of bringing 
falsehood out of truth. In most cases, before an intelligent 
jury, it is mere show. When it is not founded on materials 
of contradiction, or directed to obtain some information which 
the witness will probably give, it proceeds on the assumption 
that the party interrogated has sworn an untruth, which he 
may be induced to vary. But, in the great majority of cases, 
the contrary is the fact, and therefore the usual consequence 
of speculative cross-examining is the production of a more 
minute and distinct story than was originally told. Still a 
jury may be puzzled ; an effect may be produced ; and as, 
in cases of felony, an advocate is not permitted to make a 
speech, he must either cross-examine or do nothing.* Here 
then, taste, feeling, and judgment, are sometimes no trifling 
hindrances. A man who has a vivid perception of the true 
relation of things cannot, without difficulty, force himself to 
occupy the attention of the court for an hour with questions 
which he feels have no bearing on the matter substantially 
in issue. Even when he might confound the transaction, the 
clearness of his own head will scarcely permit him to do the 
business well. He finds it hard to apply his mind to the 
elaborate scrutiny of a labourer's dinner or dress, the sound- 
ness of his sleep, or the slowness of his cottage time-piece ; 
and he hesitates to place himself exactly on a level with the 
witness who comes to detail them. His discretion may 

* This has been happily altered since the publication of this copy. 



292 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

sometimes restrain him from imitating the popular cross- 
examiners of the day, but his incapacity will prevent him 
still oftener, until, like them, he has become thoroughly 
habituated to the intellectual atmosphere of the court in 
which he practises. 

In starting and arguing points of law, a deep knowledge 
of law, and a faculty of clear and cogent reasoning, might 
seem qualities of the highest value. At Nisi Prius, before a 
Judge, they are so, or rather would be if the modern course 
of transacting business left a junior any opportunity to use 
them. But they are very far from producing unmingled 
advantage before inferior tribunals. As the bench is not 
often filled with magistrates profoundly learned, futile objec- 
tions are almost as likely to succeed as good ones, and some- 
times more so, because those to whom they are addressed 
have a vague notion of law as something full of mere arbi- 
trary quiddities, and therefore likely to be found in direct 
opposition to common sense. Now, a man who is himself 
ignorant of a science is obviously better fitted to hit the 
fancies of the respectable gentlemen who entertain such a 
notion, than one who thoroughly understands its rules. The 
first will raise objections where the last would be silent ; or 
will defend them with the warmth of honest conviction, where 
the lawyer would introduce them with hesitation and abandon 
them without a struggle. When a man has nothing really 
to say he is assisted greatly by confusion of language, and a 
total want of arrangement and grammar. Mere stupidity, 
accompanied by a certain degree of fluency, is no incon- 
siderable power. It enables its possessor to protract the 
contest long after he is beaten, because he neither under- 
stands his own case, nor the arguments by which he has 
been answered. It is a weapon of defence, behind which 
he obtains protection, not only from his adversaries, but from 
the judge. If the learned person who presides, wearied out 
with endless irrelevancies, should attempt to stop him, he 
will insist on his privilege to be dull, and obtain the admira- 
tion of the audience by his firmness in supporting the rights 
of the bar. In these points, a sensitive and acute advocate 
has no chance of rivalling him in the estimation of the by- 
standers. A young man may, indeed, display correctness 
of thought, depth of research, and elegant perspicuity in an 



ON THE PROFESSION OF THE EAR. 293 

argument on a special case, in the Court of King's Bench ; 
but few will hear and fewer listen to him ; and he will see 
the proceedings of the day shortly characterized in the news- 
papers of the morrow " as totally destitute of public interest," 
while the opposite column wiU be filled with an elaborate 
report of a case of assault at Clerkenwell, or a picturesque 
accoimt of a squabble between a pawnbroker and an alder- 
man ! 

To address a jury, even in cases of minor importance, 
seems at first to require talents and requirements of a supe- 
rior kind. It really requires a certain degree of nerve, a 
readiness of utterance, and a sufficient acquaintance with 
the ordinary line of Olustration used and approved on similar 
occasions. A power of stating facts, indeed, distinctly and 
concisely is often important to the real issue of the cause ; 
but it is not one which the audience are likely to appreciate. 
The man who would please them best should omit all the 
facts of his case, and luxuriate in the common places which 
he can connect with it, unless he is able to embellish his 
statement, and invest the circumstances he relates with ad- 
ventitious importance and dignity. An advocate of accurate 
perceptions, accustomed to rate things according to their true 
value, will find great difficulty in doing either. Most of the 
subject matter of flourish, which is quite as real to the super- 
ficial orator as any thing in the world, is thrown far back 
from his habitual thoughts, and hardly retains a place among 
the lumber of his memory. Grant him time for preparation, 
and a disposition to do violence to his own tastes, in order 
to acquire popularity, and he may approach a genuine artist 
in the factitious ; but, after all, he will ran great risk of being 
detected as a pretender. A single touch of real feeling, a 
single piece of concise logical reasoning, will ruin the effect 
of the whole, and disturb the well-attuned minds of an en- 
lightened jury. Even the topics which must be dilated on 
are often such as would not weigh a feather with an intelli- 
gent man, out of court, and still oftener give occasion to 
watery amplifications of ideas, which may be fairly and fully 
expressed in a few words. It is obvious, therefore, that the 
more an advocate's mind is furnished with topics rather than 
with opinions or thoughts, the more easy will he find the 
task of addressing a jury. A sense of truth is ever in his 



294 talpourd's miscellaneous writings. 

way. It breaks the fine, flimsy, gossamer tissue of his elo- 
quence, whicfe,4)ut for this sturdy obstacle, might hang sus- 
pended on slender props to glitter in the view of fascinated 
juries. If he has been accustomed to recognise a proportion 
between words and things, he will, with difficulty, screw 
himself up to describe a petty affi'ay in the style of Gibbon, 
though to his client the battle of Holy well-lane may seem 
more important than the fall of the Roman Empire. If he 
would enrapture the audience when entrusted to open a 
criminal case of importance, he should begin with the first 
murder ; pass a well-rounded eulogy on the social system ; 
quote Blackstone, and the Precepts of Noah ; and dilate on 
crime, conscience, and the trial by jury ; before he begins to 
state the particiilar facts which he expects to prove. He 
disdains to do this — or the favourite topics never occur to 
his mind even to be rejected ; and, instead of winning the 
admiration of a county, he only obtains a conviction ! In 
addition to an inward repugnance to solemn fooling, men of 
sterling sense have also to overcome the dread of the criticism 
of others whose opinion they value, before they can descend 
to the blandishments of popular eloquence. It is seldom, 
therefore, that a young barrister can employ the most effica- 
cious mode of delighting his audience, unless he is nearly on 
a par with them, and thinks, in honest stupidity, that he is 
pouring forth pathos and wisdom. There is, indeed, an ex- 
cessive proneness to adopt the tone of the moment, an easi- 
ness of temperament, which sometimes may enable him to 
make a display in a trifling matter without conscious degra- 
dation ; but he is ashamed of his own success when he grows 
cool, and was reduced by excessive sympathy to the level of 
his hearers only for the hour. Let no one, therefore, hastily 
conclude that the failure of a youth, to whom early oppor- 
tunities are given, is a proof of essential inferiority to suc- 
cessful rivals. It may be, indeed, that he is below his busi- 
ness ; for want of words does not necessarily imply plenitude 
of ideas, nor is abstinence from lofty prosings and stale jests 
conclusive evidence of wit and knowledge ; but he is more 
probably superior to his vocation — too clear in his own per- 
ceptions to perplex others ; too much accustomed to think to 
make a show without thought; and too deeply impressed 
with admiration of the venerable and the affecting readily to 



ON THE PROFESSION OF THE BAR. 295 

apply their attributes to the miserable facts he is retained to 
■embellish. 

Let us now take a glance at that higher sphere in which 
a barrister moves when he has overcome the difficulties of 
his profession, and has obtained a share of leading business 
in the superior courts. Here it must at once be conceded 
that considerable powers are necessary, and that the defi- 
ciencies which aided the aspiring junior will no longer pre- 
vail. The learning and authority of the judge, and the acute- 
ness of established rivals, not only prevent the success of 
those experiments, which ignorance only can hazard, but 
generally stifle them in the birth. The number and variety 
of causes, and the business-like manner in which they are 
conducted, restrain the use of fine spun rhetoric to a few 
special occasions. A man who would keep any large por- 
tion of general practice must have industry and retentive 
memory ; clearness of mind enough to state facts with dis- 
tinctness, and to arrange them in lucid order ; a knowledge 
of law sufficient for the discovery of any point in his own 
^favour, and for the supply of a ready evasion of any sug- 
gested by his opponent; quickness and comprehension of 
intellect to see the whole case on both sides at one view ; 
and complete self-possession and coolness, without which aU 
other capacities will be useless. These are essentials for Nisi 
Prius practice ; but does it give scope to no higher faculties .' 
Is there nothing in human intellect which may be allowed to 
adorn, to lighten, and to inspire the dull mass of facts and 
reasonings ? Was Erskine no more than a distinct narrator, 
a tolerable lawyer, and a powerful reasoner on opposing 
facts? Can no higher praise be given to Scarlett, who 
sways the Court of King's Bench like a monarch, and to 
Brougham* whose eloquence sheds terror into the enemies 
of freedom throughout the world t We will answer these 
questions as well as we are able. 

For the highest powers of the mind which can be de- 
veloped in eloquence even a superior court rarely affords 
room. Some have ascribed their absence to a chilling spirit 
of criticism in the legal auditors ; but it is really attributable 
to the want of fitness in the subjects, and in the occasions. 

* Now Lord Brougham. 



296 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

The noble faculty of imagination may, indeed, sometimes be 
excited to produce sublime creations, in the fervour, of a 
speech, as justly as in the rage or sorrow of a tragedy ; but 
in both the passion must enkindle the imagination, not the 
imagination create the passion. The distinction of eloquence 
from other modes of prose composition is that it is primarily 
inspired by passion, and that it is either solely addressed to 
the feelings, or sways the understanding through the medium 
of the affections. It is only true when it is proportioned to 
the subject out of which it arises, because otherwise the pas- 
sion is but fantastical and belongs to the mock heroic. In 
its course, it may edge the most subtle reasonings, point the 
keenest satire, and excite the imagination to embody truth in 
living images of grandeur and beauty ; but its spring and 
instinct must be passion. Nor is this aU ; it must not only 
be proportioned to the feeling in its author's mind, but to the 
feeling and intellect of those to whom it is addressed. A 
man of ardent temperament may work himself into a state 
of excitation by contemplating things which are remote and 
visionary; he may learn to take an enthusiastic interest in 
the objects of his own solitary musings ; but if he brings into 
court the passionate dreams of his study, he will invite scorn 
and make failure certain. Not only is there rarely a subject 
which can worthily enkindle such passion as may excite 
imagination, but still more rarely an audience who can justify 
it by receiving it into their hearts. On some few occasions, 
as of great political trials, a burning indignation can be felt 
and reflected ; the thoughts which the jury themselves swell 
with may be imaged in shapes of fire ; and the orator may, 
while clothing mighty principles in noble yet familiar shapes, 
by a felicitous compromise, bring grandeur and beauty half 
way^ to the audience, and raise the audience to a station 
where they can feel their influence. But he must take care 
that he does not deceive himself by his own emotions ; and 
mistake the inspiration of the study for that of the court. 
He is safe only while he is impelled by the feeling of those 
whom he addresses, and while he keeps fully within their 
view. In ordinary causes, imagination would not only be 
out of place, but it cannot enter ; because its own essence is 
truth, and because it never has part in genuine eloquence 
unless inspired by adequate emotion. The flowers of oratory 



ON THE PROFESSION OF THE BAR. 297 

which are withheld by fear of contempt, or regarded as mere 
ornaments if produced, are not those which grow out of the 
subject, and are streaked and coloured by the feeling of the 
time ; but gaudy exotics, leisurely gathered and stuck in out 
of season, and destitute of root. These fantastical decora- 
tions do not prove the existence of fervour or of imagination, 
but the want of both ; and it is well if they are kept back by 
the good sense of the speaker, or liis reasonable fears. But 
while a man, endowed with high faculties, cautiously abstains 
from displaying them on inadequate occasions, he will find 
them too often an impediment and a burden. He is in 
danger of timidity from a consciousness of power yet unas- 
certained even by himself, and from an apprehension lest he 
should profane his long-cherished thoughts by a needless ex- 
posure. He is liable to be posed by the recurrence of some 
delicate association which he feels will not be understood, 
and modestly hesitates on the verge of the profound. He is, 
therefore, less fitted for ordinary business than another who 
(;an survey his own mental resources at a glance, as a well- 
ordered armoury, and select, without hesitation, the weapoji 
best adapted for the struggle. 

Pathos, mvich oftener than imagination, falls within the 
province of the advocate. But the art of exciting pity holds 
no elevated rank in the scale of intellectual power. As em- 
ployed at the bar in actions for adultery, seduction, and 
breach of promise of marriage, ostensibly as a means of 
effecting a transfer of money from the purse of the culprit to 
that of the sufferer, it sinks yet lower than its natural place, 
and robs the sorrows on which it expatiates of all their dig- 
nity. The first of these actions is a disgrace to the English 
character; for the plaintiff, who asks for money, has sus- 
tained no pecuniary loss ; and what money does he deserve 
who seeks it as a compensation for domestic comfort, at the 
price of exposing to the greedy public all the shameful par- 
ticulars of his wife's crime and of his own disgrace? In the 
other cases, where the party has been injured, not only in 
feeling, but in property or property's value, it is right that 
redress should be given ; and that redress, even when sought 
in the form of damages, may be demanded in a tone of elo- 
quent reprobation of villany ; but the moment the advocate 
recounts the miseries of his client, in order to show how 
26 



298 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

much money ought to be awarded, his task is degrading and 
irksome. He speaks of modesty destroyed, of love turned 
to bitterness, of youth blasted m its prime, and of age brought 
down by sorrow to the grave ; and he asks for money .' He 
hawks the wrongs of the inmost spirit, " as beggars do their 
sores," and unveils the sacred agonies of the heart, that the 
jury may estimate the value of their palpitations ! It is in 
vain that he urges the specious plea, that no money can com- 
pensate the sufferer, to sustain the inference that the jury 
must give the whole sum laid in the declaration ; for the in- 
ference does not follow. Money will not compensate, not 
because it is msufficient in degree but in kind ; and, there- 
fore, the consequence is — not that great damages should be 
given, but that none should be claimed. When once money 
is connected with the idea of mental grief, by the advocate 
who represents the sufferer, all respect for both is gone. 
Subjects, therefore, of this kind are never susceptible in a 
court of law of the truest pathetic ; and the topics to which 
they give occasion are somewhat musty. 

if, however, the highest powers of the mind are rarely 
brought into action in a Court of Nisi Prius, its more ordi- 
nary faculties are required in fuU perfection, and readiness 
for use. To an uninitiated spectator, the course of a leader 
in considerable business seems little less than a miracle. He 
opens his brief with apparent unconcern; states compli- 
cated facts and dates with marvellous accuracy ; conducts 
his cause with zeal and caution through all its dangers ; re- 
plies on the instant, dexterously placing the adverse features 
of each side in the most favourable position for his client ; 
and, having won or lost the verdict for which he has strug- 
gled, as if his fortune depended on the issue, dismisses it 
firom his mind like one of the spectators. The next cause 
is called on ; the jury are sworn ; he unfolds another brief 
and another tale, and is instantly inspired with a new zeal, 
and possessed by a new set of feehngs ; and so he goes on 
till the court rises, finding time in the intervals of actual ex- 
ertion to read the newspaper, and talk over all the scandal 
of the day ! This is curious work ; it obviously requires all 
the powers to which we have referred as essential ; and the 
complete absorption of the mind in each successive case. 
Besides these, there are two qualities essential to .splendid 



ON THE PROFESSION OF THE EAR. 299 

success — a pliable temperament, and that compound quality, 
or result of several qualities, called tact, in the management 
of a cause. 

To the first of these we have already alluded, in its ex- 
cessive degree, as supplying a young barrister with the capa- 
bility of making a display on trivial occasions ; but, when 
chastened by time, it is a most important means of success 
in the higher deportments of the profession. An advocate 
should not only throw his mind into the cause, but his heart 
also. It is not enough that the ingenuity is engaged to elicit 
strength, or conceal weakness, unless the sympathies are 
fairly enlisted on the same side. To men of lofty habits of 
thinking, or of cold constitution, this is impossible, unless 
the case is of intrinsic magnitude, or the client has been wise 
enough to supply an artificial stimulus in the endorsement 
on the brief Such men, therefore, are only excellent in pe- 
culiar cases, where theu" sluggish natures are quickened, 
and their pride gratified or disarmed by a Iiigh issue, or a 
splendid fee. Persons, on the other hand, who are prevented 
from saying " no," not by cowardice, but by sympathy ; 
whose hearts open to all who happen to be their companions ; 
whose prejudices vanish with a cordial grasp of the hand, 
or melt before a word of judicious flatteiy ; who have a 
spare fund of warmth and kindness to bestow on whoever 
seeks it ; and who, energetic in action, are wavermg in opi- 
nion, and infirm of purpose — will be delighted advocates, if 
they happen also to possess industry and nerve. The state- 
ment in their brief is enough to convert them into partisans, 
ready to triumph in the cause if it is good, and to cling to 
it if it is hopeless as to a friend in misfortmie. By this in- 
stinct of sociality, they are enabled not only to throw life 
into its details, and energy into its struggles, but to create 
for themselves a personal interest with the jury, which they 
turn to the advantage of their clients. It has often been al- 
leged that the practice of the law pi'epares men to abandon 
their principles in the hour of temptation ; but it will often 
appear, on an attentive survey of their character, that the 
extent of their pi-actice was the effect rather than the cause 
of their inconstancy. They are not unstable because they 
were successful barristers, but became successful barristers 
by virtue of the very qualities which render them unstable. 



300 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

They do not yield on a base calculation of honour or gain, 
but because they cannot resist a decisive compliment paid 
to their talents by the advisers of the crown. They are un- 
done by the very trick of sympathy which has often mould- 
ed them to the puiposes of their clients and swayed juries to 
their pleasure. 

But the great power of a Nisi Prius advocate consists of 
tact in the management of a cause. Of this a by-stander 
sees but little ; if the art be consummate, nothing; and he 
is, with difficulty, made to comprehend its full value. He 
hears the cause tried fairly out ; observes perhaps witnesses 
on both sides examined ; and thinking the whole merits 
have been necessarily disclosed, he sees no room for peculiar 
skill, except in the choice of topics to address to the jury. 
But a trial is not a hearing of all the matters capable of dis- 
covery which are relevant to the issue, or which would assist 
an impartial mind in forming a just decision. It is an arti- 
ficial mode of determination, bounded by narrow limits, go- 
verned by artificial rules, and allowing each party to present 
to the court, as much or as little of his own case as he 
pleases. A leader, then, has often, on the instant, to select 
out of a variety of matters, precisely those which will make 
the best show, and be least exposed to observation and an- 
swer ; to estimate the probable case which lies hid in his 
adversary's brief, and prepare his own to elude its force ; 
to decide between the advantage of producing a witness and 
the danger of exposing him ; or, if he represents the defend- 
ant, to apply evidence to a case new in many of its aspects, 
or take the grave responsibility of offering none. Besides 
the opportunity which the forms and mode of trial give to 
the exercise of skill, the laws of evidence afford still greater 
play for ingenuity, and ground for caution. Some of these 
are founded on principle ; some on mere precedent ; some 
caprice ; some on a desire to swell the revenue ; and all 
serve to perplex the game of Nisi Prius, and give advantages 
to its masters. The power which they exhibit among its in- 
tricacies is really admirable, and may almost be considered 
as a lower order of genius. Its efforts must be immediate ; 
for the exigency presses, and the lawyer, like the woman, 
" who deliberates is lost." He cannot stop to recollect a pre- 
cedent, or to estimate all the consequences of a single step ; 



ON' THE PROFESSION OF THE BAR. 301 

yet he decides boldly and justly. His tact is, in truth, the 
result of a great number of impi'essions, of which he is now 
unconscious, which gives him a kind of intuitive power to 
arrive at once at the right conclusion. Its effects do not 
make a show in the newspapers ; but they are very eloquent 
in the sheriff's office, and in the rolls of the court 

Besides exerting these qualities, a leader may render his 
statements not only perspicuous but elegant ; relieves the dul- 
ness of a cause by wit not too subtle ; and sometimes en- 
liven the court by a momentary play of fancy. To describe 
Mr. Ei'skine, when at the bar, is to ascertain the highest in- 
tellectual eminence to which a barrister, under the most fa- 
vouraWe circumstances, may safely aspire. He had no ima- 
ginative power, no originality of thought, no great compre- 
hension of intellect, to encumber his progress. Inimitable 
as pleadings, his corrected speeches supply nothing which, 
taken apart from its context and the occasion, is worthy of a 
place in the memory. Their most brilliant passages are but 
common places exquisitely wrought, and curiously adapted 
to his design. Had his mind been pregnant with greater 
things, teeming with beautiful images, or, indued with deep 
wisdom, he would have been less fitted to .shed lustre on the 
ordinary feeluigs and transactions of life. If he had been 
able to answer Pitt without fainting, or to support Fox with- 
out sinking into insignificance, he would not have been the 
delight of special juries, and the glory of the Court of King's 
Bench. For that sphere, his powers, his acquisitions, and hii? 
temperament, were exactly framed. He brought into it, in- 
deed, accomplishments never displayed there before in equal 
I'yei'fection — glancing wit, rich humom% infinite gi-ace of ac- 
tion, singular felicity of language, and a memory elegantly 
stored, yet not crowded with subjects of classical and fanci- 
ful illustration. Above his audience, he was not beyond 
their sight, and he possessed rare facilities of raising them 
to his own level. In this purpose, he was aided by his con- 
nexion with a noble family, by a musical voice, and by an 
eloquent eye, which enticed men to forgive, and even to ad- 
mire his natural polish and refined allusions. But his moral 
qualities tended even more to \vin them. Who could resist 
a disposition overflowing with kindness, animal spirits as 
elastic as those of a school-boy, and a love of gaiety and 
26* 



302 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

pleasure which shone out amidst the most anxious labours 1 
His very weaknesses became instruments of fascination. 
His egotism, his vanity, his personal frailties, were all genial, 
and gave him an irresistible claim to sympathy. His warm- 
est colours were drawn not from the fancy but the affections. 
If he touched on the romantic, it was on the little chapter of 
romance which belongs to the most hurried and feverish life. 
The imlettered clown, and the assiduous tradesman, imder- 
stood him when he revived some bright recollection of child- 
hood, or brought back on the heart the enjoyments of old 
friendship, or touched the chord of domestic love and sorrow. 
He wielded with skill and power the weapons which prece- 
dent supplied, but he rarely sought for others. When he de- 
fended the rights of the subject, it was not by abstract dis- 
quisition, but by freshening up anew the venerable customs 
and immunities wliich he found sanctioned by courts and 
parliaments, and infusing into them new energy. He en- 
trenched him.self within the forms of pleading, even when he 
ventured to glance into literature and liistory. These forms 
he rendered dignified as a fence against oppression, and cast 
on them sometimes the playful hues of his fancy. His pow- 
ers were not only adapted to his sphere, but directed by ad- 
mirable discretion and taste. In small causes he was never 
betrayed into exaggeration, but contiived to give an interest 
to their details, and to conduct them at once with dexterity 
and grace. His jests told for arguments ; his digressions 
only threw the jury off their guard that he might strike a 
decisive blow ; his audacity was always wise. His firmness 
was no less under right direction than his weaknesses. He 
withstood the bench, and rendered the bar immortal service ; 
not so much by the courage of the resistance, as by the 
happy selection of its time, and the exact propriety of its 
manner. He was, in short, the most consummate advocate 
of whom we have any trace ; he left his profession liigher 
than he found it ; and yet, beyond its pale, he was only an 
incomparable companion, a lively pamphleteer, and a weak 
and superficial debater ! 

Mr. Scarlett, the present leader of the Court of King's 
Bench, has less brilliancy than his predecessor, but is not per- 
haps essentially inferior to him in the management of causes. 
He studiously disclaims imagination ; he rarely addresses the 



ON THE PROFESSION OF THE BAR. 303 

passions ; but he now and then gives indications which prove 
that he has disciplined a mind of considerable elegance and 
strength to Nisi Prius uses. In the fine tact of which we 
have already spoken, the intuitive power of common sense 
sharpened within a peculiar cu'cle ; he has no superior, and 
perhaps no equal. He never betrays anxiety in the crisis of 
a cause, but instantly decides among complicated difficulties, 
and is almost always right. He can bridge over a nonsuit 
with insignificant facts, and tread upon the gulf steadily but 
warily to its end. What Johnson said of Burke's manner of 
treating a subject is true of his management of a cause, " he 
winds himself into it like a great serpent." He does not take 
a single view of it, nor desert it when it begins to fail, but 
throws himself into all its windings, and struggles in it while 
it has life. There is a lucid arrangement, and sometimes a 
light vein of pleasantry and feeling in his opening speeches ; 
but his greatest visible triumph is in his replies. These do 
not consist of a mere series of ingenious remarks on conflict- 
ing evidence ; still less of a tiresome examination of the tes- 
timony of each witness singly; but are as finely arranged on 
the instant, and thrown into as noble and decisive masses, 
as if they had been prepared in the study. By a vigorous 
grasp of thought, he forms a plan and an outline, which he 
first distinctly marks, and then proceeds to fill up with mas- 
terly touches. When a case has been spread over half a 
day, and apparently shattered by the speech and witnesses 
of his adversary, he will gather it up, condense, concentrate, 
and render it conclusive. He imparts a weight and solidity 
to all that he touches. Vague suspicions become certainties, 
as he exhibits them; and circumstances light, valueless, and 
unconnected till then, are united together, and come down in 
wedges which drive conviction into the mind. Of this extra- 
ordinary power, his reply on the first trial of " The King v. 
Collins," where he gained the verdict against evidence and 
justice, was a wonderful specimen. If such a speech is not 
an effort of genius, it is so much more complete than many 
works which have a portion of that higher faculty, that we 
almost hesitate to place it below them. Mr. Scarlett, in the 
debate on the motion relative to the Chancellor's attack on 
Mr. Abercrombie, showed that he has felt it necessary to 
bend his mind considerably to the routine of his practice. 



304 talfourd's miscellaneous avritings. 

He was then siuprised into liis own original nature ; and 
forgetting the measured compass of his long adopted voice 
and manner, spoke out in a broad northern dialect, and told 
daring truths which astonished the house. It is not thus, 
however, that he wins verdicts and compels the court to 
gi'ant " rules to show cause !" 

Mr. Brougham may, at first, appear to form an exception 
to the doctrines we have endeavoiured to establish ; but, on 
attentive consideration, will be found their most striking ex- 
ample. True it is, that this extraordinary man, who, with- 
out high birth, splendid fortime, or aristocratic connexion, 
has, by mere intellectual power, become the parliamentary 
leader of the whigs of England, is at last beginning to suc- 
ceed in the profession he has condescended to follow. But, 
stupendous as his abilities, and various as his acquisitions 
are, he does not possess that one presiding faculty — imagi- 
nation, which, as it concentrates all others, chiefly rendei's 
them unavailing for inferior uses. Mr. Brougham's powers 
are not thus united and rendered unwieldy and prodigious^. 
but remain apart, and neither assist nor impede each ot]:ier. 
The same speech, indeed, may give scope to several talents; 
to lucid narration, to brilliant wit, to irresistible reasoning, 
and even to heart-touching pathos ; but these will be found 
in parcels, not blended and interfused in one superhuman 
burst of passionate eloquence. The single power in which 
he excels all others is sarcasm, and his deepest inspiration — 
Scorn. Hence he can awaken terror and shame far better 
than he can melt, agitate, and raise. Animated by this blast- 
ing spirit, he can " bare the mean hearts " which '• lurk be- 
neath " a hundred " stars," and smite a majority of lordly 
persecutors into the dust ! His power is all directed to the 
practical and earthy. It is rather that of a giant than a 
magician ; of Briareus than of Prospero. He can do a hun- 
dred things well, and almost at once ; but he cannot do the 
one highest thing ; he cannot by a single touch, reveal the 
hidden treasures of the soul, and astonish the world with 
truth and beauty unknown till disclosed at his bidding. Over 
his vast domain he ranges with amazing activity, and is a 
different man in each province which he occupies. He is 
not one, but Legion. At three in the morning he will make 
a reply in parliament, which shall blanch the cheeks and ap- 



ON THE PROFESSION OF THE BAR. 305 

pal the hearts of his enemies ; and at half past nine he will 
be found in his place in court, working out a case in which 
a bill of five pounds is disputed with all the plodding care of 
the most laborious junior. This multiplicity of avocation, 
and division of talent, suit the temper of his constitution and 
mind. Not only does he accomplish a greater variety of 
purposes than any other man — not only does he give anxious 
attention to every petty cause, while he is fighting a great 
political battle and weighing the relative interests of nations 
— not only does he write an article for the Edinburgh Re- 
view while contesting a county, and prepare complicated ar- 
guments on Scotch appeals by way of rest from his generous 
endeavours to educate a people — but he does all this as if it 
were perfectly natural to him, in a manner so unpretending 
and quiet, that a stranger would thmk him a merry gentle- 
man who had nothing to do but enjoy himself and fascinate 
others. The fii-e which burns in the tough fibres of his in- 
tellect does not quicken his piJse, or kindle his blood to more 
than a genial warmth. He, therefore, is one man in the se- 
nate, another in the study, another in a committee room, 
and another in a petty cause ; and consequently is never 
above the work which he has to perform. His powers are 
all as distinct and as ready for use as those of the most ac- 
complished of Old Bailey practitioners. His most remarkable 
faculty, taken singly, the power of sarcasm, can be under- 
stood, even by a Lancaster jury. And yet, though worthy 
to rank with statesmen before whom Erskine sunk into insig- 
nificance, and though following his profession with zeal and 
perseverence almost unequalled, he has hardly been able to 
conquer the impediment of that splendid reputation, wliich to 
any other man must have been fatal ! 

These great examples are sufficient for our purpose, and 
it would be invidious to add more. Without particularizing 
any, we may safely affirm that if the majority of successful 
advocates are not men of genius, they are men of very ac- 
tive and penetrating intellect, disciplined by the peculiar ne- 
cessity of their profession to the strictest honour, and taught 
by their intimate and near acquaintance with all the casual- 
ties of human life, and the varieties of human nature, indul- 
gence to frailty and generosity to misfortune. It is impossible 
to estimate too highly the value of such a body of men, as- 



306 talfouud's miscellaneous writings. 

piling, charitable, and acute ; who, sprung from the people, 
naturally sympathize with their interests; who, being per- 
mitted to grasp at the honours of the state, are supplied with 
high motives to preserve its constitution ; and who, if not 
very eager for improving the laws, at least keep unceasing 
watch over every attempt to infringe on the rights they sus- 
tain, or to pervert them to purposes of oppression. If they 
are too prone to change their party as they rise, they seldom 
do so from base or sordid motives, and often infuse a better 
spirit into those whose favours they consent to receive. 

Let no one of those who, Avith a consciousness of fine ta- 
lents, has failed in his profession, abate his self-esteem, or 
repine at his fortune. A life of success, though a life of ex- 
citement, is also a life of constant toil, in which the pleasures 
of contemplation and of society are sparingly felt, and which 
sometimes tends to a melancholy close. Besides, the best 
part of our days is past before the struggle begins. Success 
itself has nothing half so sweet as the anticipations of boyish 
ambition and the partial love by which they were fostered. 
A barrister can scarcely hope to begin a career of anxious 
prosperity till after thirty ; and surely he who has attained 
that age, after a youth of robust study and manly pleasure, 
with firm friends, and an unspotted character, has no right 
to complain of the world ! 



THE WINE CELLAR. 307 



THE WINE CELLAR. 

[New Monthly Magazine.] 

Facilis descensus Averni, 
Sed revocare gradum, superasque evadere ad auras, 
Hie labor, hoc opus est. Viro. 

In the deep discovery of the subterranean world, a shallow part 
Would satisfy some inquirers, who if two or three yards were opened 
beneath the surface, would not care to rake tlie bowels of Potosi and 
regions towards the centre. Sir Thomas Brownk. 

Men have always attached a peculiar interest to that re- 
gion of the earth which extends for a few yards beneath its 
surface. Below this depth the imagination, delighting to 
busy itself among the secrets of Time and Mortality, hath 
rarely cared to penetrate. A few feet of ground may suffice 
for the repose of the first dwellers of the earth until its frame 
shall grow old and perish. The little coin, silent picture of for- 
gotten battles, lies among the roots of shrubs and vegetables for 
centuries, till it is turned into light by some careful husband- 
man, who ploughs an inch deeper than his fathers. The 
dead bones which, loosened from their urns, gave occasion 
to Sir Thomas Browne's noblest essay, " had outlasted the 
living ones of Methusalem, and in a yard under ground, and 
thin walls of clay, outworn all the strong and spacious build- 
ings above them, and quietly rested under the drums and 
tramplings of three conquests." Superstition chooses the 
subterranean space which borders on the abodes of the 
living, and ranges her vaults and mysterious caverns near 
to the scenes of revelry, passion, and joy ; and within this 
narrow rind rest the mighty products of glorious vintages, 
the stores of that divine juice which, partaking of the rarest 



308 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

qualities of physical and intellectual nature, blends them in 
happier union within us. Here, in this hallowed ground, the 
germs of inspiration and the memorials of decay lie side by 
side, and Bacchus holds divided empire with the King of 
Terrors. 

As I sat indulging this serious vein of reflection some 
years ago, when my relish of philosophy and port was young, 
a friend called to remind me that we had agreed to dine 
together with rather more luxury than usual. I had made 
the appointment with boyish eagerness, and now started 
gladly from my solitary reveries to keep it. The friend 
with whom I had planned our holiday, was one of those few 
persons whom you may challenge to a convivial evening 
with a mathematical certainty of enjo5ang it ; — wMch is the 
rarest quality of friendship. Many who are equal to great 
exigencies, and would go through fire and water to serve 
you, want the delicate art to allay the petty irritations, and 
heighten the ordinary enjoyments of life, and are quite unable 
to make themselves agreeable at a tete-a-tete dinner. Not 
so my companion ; who zealous, prompt, and consoling in 
all seasons of trial, had good sense for every little difficulty, 
and a happy humour for every social moment ; at aU times 
a better and wiser self Blest with good but never boisterous 
spirits ; endowed with the rare faculty not only of divining 
one's wishes but instantly making them his own ; skOflil in 
sweetening good counsel with honest flattery ; able to bear 
with enthusiasm in which he might not participate, and to 
avoid smiling at the follies he could not help discerning; 
ever ready to indulge the secret Avish of his guest "for 
another bottle," with heart enough to drink it with him, and 
head enough to take care of him when it was gone, he was 
(and yet is) the pleasantest of advisers, the most genial 
of lister.ers, and the quietest of lively companions. On this 
memorable day he had, with his accustomed forethought, 
given particular orders for our entertainment, and I hastened 
to enjoy it with him, little thinking how deep and solemn was 
the pleasure which awaited us. 

We arrived at the — — Coffee House about six on a 
bright afternoon in the middle of September, and found every 
thing ready and excellent ; and the turtle magnificent and 
finely relieved by lime punch effectually iced ; grilled salmon 



THE WINE CELLAR. 309 

crisply prepared for its appropriate ]emon and mustard ; a 
leg of Welch mutton just tasted as a " sweet remembrancer" 
of its heathy and hungry hills ; woodcocks with thighs of 
exquisite delicacy and essence " deeply interfused" in thick 
soft toast ; and mushrooms, which Nero justly called '• the 
flesh of the gods," simply broiled and faintly sprinkled with 
Cayenne* Our conversation was, of course, confined to 
mutual invitations and expressive criticisms on the dishes ; 
the only table-talk which men of sense can tolerate. But the 
most substantial gratifications, in this world at least, must 
liave an end ; and the last mushroom was at length eaten. 
Unfortunately for the repose of the evening, we were haunted 
by the recollection of some highly flavoured port, and, in spite 
of strong evidence of identity firom conspiring waiters, sought 
for the like in vain. Bottle after bottle was produced and 
dismissed as " not the thing," till our generous host, some- 
what between liberal hospitality and just impatience, smilingly 
begged us to accompany him into the cellar, inspect the 
whole of " his little stock," and choose for ourselves ! We 
took him at his word ; another friend of riper years and 
graver authority joined us ; and we prepared to follow our 
guide who stood ready to conduct us to the banks of Lethe. 
All the preparations, like those which preceded similar de- 
scents of the heroes of old, bespoke the awfulness and peril 
of the journey. Our host preceded us Avith his massive keys 

* This trait sufficiently accounts for tlie flowers which were seen 
scattered on the sepulchre of Nero, when the popular indignation 
raged highest against his memory — the grateful Roman had eaten 
his mushroom under imperial auspices. Had Lord Byron been ac- 
quainted with the flavour of choice mushrooms, he would have 
tamed to give it honour due after the following stanza, one of the 
noblest in that work, which, with all its faults of waywardness and 
haste, is a miracle of language, pathos, playfulness, sublimity and 
sense. 

When Nero pciish'd by the justcst doom 
VVliich ever llie destroyer yet destroy'd, 
Amidst tlie roar of liberated Rome, 
The nations free and tlie world overjoy'd. 
Some hand unseen strew'd flowers upon his tomb — 
Perhaps llie v/eakncss of a heart not void 
Of feeling for some kindness done when power 
Had left the wretch one uncorrupled hour I 
27 



310 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

to perfoi'm an oflSce collatei-al to that of St, Peter » behind, a 
dingy imp of the nether regions stood with glasses in his 
hands and a prophetic grin on his face ; and each of us was 
armed with a flaming torch to penetrate the gloom which 
now stretched through the narrow entrance before us. 

We descended the broken and winding staircase with 
cautious steps, and, to confess the truth, not without some 
apprehension for our upward journey, yet hoping to be num- 
bered among that select class of Pluto's visiters, " quos ardens 
evexit ad aethera virtus." On a sudden, turning a segment 
of a mighty cask, we stood in the centre of the vast recep- 
tacle of spirituous riches. The roof of solid and stoutly com- 
pacted brickwork, low, but boldly arched, looked substantial 
enough to defy all attacks of the natural enemy, water, and 
resist a second deluge. From each side ran long galleries, 
partially shown by the red glare of the torches, extending 
one way far beneath the busy trampling of the greatest shop- 
keepers and stock-jobbers in the world ; and, on the other, 
below the clamour of the Old Bailey Court and the cells of 
its victims. What a range ! Here rest, cooling in the deep- 
delved cells, the concentrated essences of sunny years ! In 
this archway huge casks of mighty wine are scattered in 
bounteous confusion, like the heaped jewels and gold on the 
" rich strond" of Spenser, the least of which would lay Sir 
Walter's Fleming low ! Throughout that long succession of 
vaults, thousands of bottles, " in avenues disposed," lie silently 
waiting their time to kindle the imagination, to sharpen the 
wit, to open the soul, and to unchain the trembling tongue. 
There may you feel the true grandeur of quiescent power, 
and walk amidst the palpable elements of madness or of 
wisdom. What stores of sentiment in that butt of raciest 
Sherry '. What a fund of pensive thought ! What sugges- 
tions for delicious remembrance ! What " aids to reflection !" 
(genuine as those of Coleridge) in that Hock of a century 
old. What sparkling fancies, whirling and foaming, from a 
stout body of thought in that full and ripe Champaigne! 
What mild and serene philosophy in that Burgundy, ready 
to shed " its sunset glow" on society and nature ! This pate 
Brandy, softened by age, is the true " spirit" wliich " disturbs 
us with the joy of elevated thoughts." That Hermitage, 
stealing gently into the chambers of the brain, shall make us 



THE WINE CELLAR. 311 

" babble of green fields;" and that delicate Claret, innocently 
bubbling and dancing in tlie slender glass, shall bring its own 
vine-coloured hills more vividly before us even than Mr. 
Stanfield's pencil ! There from a time-changed bottle, ten- 
derly drawn from a crypt, protected by huge primeval cob- 
webs, you may taste antiquity, and feel the olden time on 
your palate ! As we sip this marvellous Port,* to the very 
colour of which age has been gentle, methinks we have 
broken into one of those rich vaults in which Sir Thomas 
Browne, the chief butler of the tomb, finds treasures rarer 
than jewels. " Some," saith he, " discover sepulchral vessels 
containing liquors which time hath incrassated into jellies. 
For besides lacrymatories, notable lamps, with oDs and aro- 
matic liquors, attended noble ossuaries ; and some yet re- 
taining a vinosity and spirit in them, which, if any have 
tasted, they have far exceeded the palates of antiquity; — 
liquors, not to be computed by years of annual magistrates, 
but by great conjunctions and the fatal periods of kingdoms. 
The draughts of consulary date were but crude unto these, 
and opimian wine but in the must unto them." « 

We passed on from flavour to flavour with our proud and 
liberal guide, whose comments added zest even to the text 
which he had to dilate on. A scent, a note of music, a voice 
long unheard, the stirring of the summer breeze, may startle 
us with the sudden revival of long-forgotten feelings and 
thoughts, but none of these little whisperers to the heart is 
so potently endowed with this simple spell as the various 
flavours of Port to one who has tried, and, in various moods 
of his own mind, relished them all. This full, rough, yet 
fi'uity wine, brings back that first season of London life when 
topics seemed exhaustless as words, and coloured with rain- 
bow hues ; when Irish students, fresh from Trinity College, 
Dtiblin, were not too loud or familiar to be borne ; when the 
florid fluency of others was only tiresome as it interrupted 
one's own ; when the vast Temple Hall was not too large or 
too cold for sociality; and ambition, dilating in the venerable 

* Old Port wine is more ancient to the imagination than any 
other, though in fact it may have been known fewer years; as a 
broken Gothic arch has more of the spirit of antiquity about it than 
a Grecian temple. Port reminds us of the obscure middle ages; but 
Hock, like the classical mythology, is always young. 



312 talfourd's miscellaneous -writings. 

space, shaped dreams of enterprize, labour, and glory, till it 
requii'ed more wine to assuage its fervours. This taste of a 
liquor, firm yet in body, though tawny with years, bears 
witli it to the heart that houi" when, having returned to my 
birth-place, after a long and eventful absence, and having 
been cordially welcomed by my hearty friends, I slipped 
away from the table, and hunied, in the light of a brilliant 
sunset, to the gently declining fields and riclily wooded 
hedgrows which were the favourite haunt of my serious 
boyhood. The swelling hills seemed touched witla ethereal 
softness ; the level plain was invested " with purpureal 
gleams ;" every wild rose and stirring branch was eloquent 
with vivid recollections: a thousand hoursof happy thought- 
fiilness came back upon the heart ; and the glorious clouds 
which fringed the western horizon looked prophetic of golden 
years " predestined to descend and bless mankind." This 
soft, highly-flavoured Poi't, in every drop of which you seem 
to taste an aromatic flower, revives that delicious evening, 
when, after days of search for the tale of Rosamond Grey, 
of which I had mdistinctly heard, I returned from an obscure 
circulating library with my prize, and brought out a long- 
cherished bottle, given me two years before as a curiosity, 
by way of accompaniment to that quintessence of imagina- 
tive romance. How did I enjoy, with a strange delight, its 
scriptiu'al pathos, like a newly discovered chapter of the 
Book of Ruth ; hang enamoured over its young beauty, 
lovelier for the antique fi'ame of language in which it was 
set ; and long to be acquainted with the author, though I 
scarcely dared aspire so high, and little anticipated those 
hundreds of happy evenings since passed in his society, 
which now crowd on me in rich confusion ! — Thus is it that 
these subtlest of remembrancers not only revive some joyful 
season, but this also " contains a glass which shows us many 
more," unlocking the choicest stores of memory, that cellar 
of the bram, in which lie the ti'easures which make life pre- 
cious. 

But see ! our party have seated themselves beneath that 
central arch to enjoy a calmer pleasure after the fatigues of 
their travel. They look romantic as banditti in a cave, and 
good-humoured as a committee of aldermen. A cask which 
has done good senice in its day — the shell of the evaporated 



THE WIXE CELLAR. 313 

Spirit — serves for a table round which they sit on rude but 
ample benches. The torches planted in the ground cast a 
broad light over the scene, making the ruddy wine glisten, 
and seeming by their irregular flickering, as if they too felt 
tlie influence of the spot. My friend, usually so gentle in his 
convivialities, has actually broken forth into a song, such as 
these vaults never heard ; our respected senior sits trying to 
preserve his solemn look, but unconsciously smOing; and 

Mr. B 1, the founder of the banquet, is sedulously doing 

the honours with only intenser civility, and calling out for 
fresh store of ham, sandwiches and broiled mushrooms, to 
enable us to do justice to the liquid delicacies before us. The 
usual order of wines is disregarded ; no affected climax, no 
squeamish assortments of tastes for us here ; we despise all 
rules, and jneld a sentimental indulgence to the aberrations 
of the bottle. " Riches fineless " are piled around us ; we 
are below the laws and their ministers ; and just, lo ! in the 
farthest glimmer of the torches lies outstretched our black 
Mercury, made happy by our leavings, and seeming to re- 
joice that in the cellar, as in the grave, all men are equal. 

How the soul expands from this narrow cell and bids de- 
fiance to the massive walls ! What Elysian scenes begin to 
dawn amidst the darkness ! Now do I understand the glo- 
rious tale of Aladdin and the subterranean gardens. It is 
plain that the visionary boy had discovered just such a cellar 
as this, and there eagerly learned to gather amaranthine 
fruits, and range in celestial groves, till the Genius of the 
Ring, who has sobered many a youth, took him in charge, 
and restored him to common air. Here is the true temple, 
the inner shrine of Bacchus. Feebly have they understood 
the attributes of the benignant god, who have represented 
him as delighting in a garish bower with clustering grapes ; 
here he rejoices to sit, in his true citadel, amidst his mightier 
treasures. Methinks we could now, in prophetic mood, trace 
the gay histories of these his embodied inspirations, among 
those who shall feel them hereafter ; live at once along a 
thousand lines of sympathy and thouglit which they shall kin- 
dle ; reverse the melancholy musing of Hamlet, and trace 
that which the bunghole-stopper confines to " the noble dust 
of an Alexander," which it shall quicken ; and peeping into 



314 talfourd's miscellaneous writi:?gs. 

the studies of our brother contributors, see how that vintage 
which flushed the hills of France with purple, shall mantle 
afresh in the choice articles of this Magazine. 

But it is time to stop, or my readers Avill suspect me of a 
more recent visit to the cellar. They will be mistaken. One 
such descent is enough for a life ; and I stand too much in 
awe of the Powers of the Grave to venture again so near to 
their precinctsw 



DESTRUCTION OF THE BRUNSWICK THEATRE BY FIRE. 315 



ON THE DESTRUCTION OF THE BRUNS- 
WICK THEATRE BY FIRE. 

[New Monthly Magazine.] 

We notice tliis lamentable accident in our dramatic re- 
cord, not for the sake of inquiry into its causes, or of multi- 
plying the dismal associations which it awakens, but for the 
striking manner in which it has brought out the proper vir- 
tues of players. Actors of all ranks ; managers of all in- 
terests ; the retired and the active ; the successful and the ob- 
scure ; the refined and the vulgar ; from Mrs. Siddons down to 
the scene-shifters of Sadler's Wells, have pressed forward to 
afford their sympathy and relief to the living sufferers. The 
proprietors of the patent theatres, who were just complaining 
of the infringements on their purchased rights, which have 
rendered them almost valueless, at once forgot the meditated 
injury to themselves, and saw nothing but the misery of their 
comrades. It is only on occasions such as these that the 
charities which are nurtured amidst the excitements and vi- 
cissitudes of a theatrical life are exhibited, so as to put the in- 
discriminate condemnations of the crabbed moralist and the 
fanatic to shame. There is more equality in the distribution of 
goodness and evil than either of these classes imagine ; for the 
" respectable" part of the community are powerful and per- 
manent ; and obtain, perhaps, something more than justice 
for the negative virtues. Far be it from us to undervalue 
these, or to sympathize with any who would represent the ordi- 
nary guards and fences of morality as things of little value ; 
but justice is due to all ; and justice, we cannot help think- 
ing, is scarcely done to those whose irregularities and whose 
virtues grow together on that verge of ruin and despair on 



316 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

which they stand in the times of their giddiest elevation. A 
cold observance of the decencies of life excites no man's envy 
and wounds no man's self-love ; and, therefore, it is allowed 
without grudging ; whUe the dazzling errors and redeeming 
nobleness of the light-hearted and the generous are more 
easily abused than copied. To detect " the soul of goodness 
in things evil," is not to confound evil v/ith good, or to weaken 
the laws of honour and conscience, but to give to them a finer 
precision and a more penetrating vigour. It is not by dis- 
tinguishing, but by confounding, that pernicious sentimental- 
ists pervert the understanding and corrupt the affections. 
They lend to vice the names and attributes of virtue ; tack 
together qualities which could never be united in nature ; 
and thus, in order to produce a new and startling effect, de- 
. prave the moral sensibility, and relax the tone of manly feel- 
ing. But it is another thing to hold the balance fairly be- 
tween the excellencies and the fi^ailties of imperfect man ; to 
, trace the hints and indications of high emotion amidst the 
weaknesses of our nature ; to consider temptations as well as 
ti'ansgressions, and to estimate not only what is done but 
what is resisted. We can, indeed, do this but partially, yet 
we should, as far as possible, dispose ourselves to be just in 
our moral censures ; and we shall find in those whom we 
call " good for nothing people," more good than we think for. 
Actors are, no doubt, more liable to deviate from the ordinary 
proprieties of conduct, than merchants or agriculturalists ; it 
is their business to give pleasure to others, and, therefore, 
they must incline to the pleasurable ; they live in the present, 
and it is no wonder that, as their tenure is more precarious 
than that of others, they take less thought for the future. 
But if they have less of the virtue of discretion, they have 
also less of that alloy of gross selfishness to which it is allied ; 
they have much of the compassion which they help to dif- 
fuse ; and ludicrous as their vanities sometimes are they give 
way at once on the touch of sympathy for unmerited or me- 
rited sorrow. Mr. Kean is an extreme instance, perhaps, 
both of imprudence and generosity ; and accordingly no man 
living has been treated with greater injustice by a moral £ind 
discerning public. Raised in a moment from obscurity and 
want to be the idol of the town ; courted, caressed, and ap- 
plauded by the multitude, praised by men of genius, with 



DESTRUCTION OP THE BRUNSWICK THEATRE BY FIRE. 317 

rank, beauty, and wit, proud to be enlisted in his train, he 
grew giddy and fell, and was hooted from the stage with 
brutal indignities. All knew his faults ; but how few were 
capable of understanding his virtues — his princely spirit, his 
warn^and cordial friendship, his proneness to forget his own 
interests in those of others, his magnanimity and his kind- 
ness! The "respectable" part of the community do not en- 
gi-oss all its goodness, although they turn it to the best ac- 
count for their own benefit. Under the shield of this character, 
they sometimes do things which the vagabonds they sneer 
at, would not, and could not achieve ; and such is the sub- 
mission of mankind to custom, that they retain their name 
even when they are detected. An attorney, in large prac- 
tice, convicted of a fraud, retains the addition "respectable" 
till he receives judgment ; the announcement of the failure of 
:i country bank, by which hundreds arc ruined, styles the 
swindlers "the respectable firm;" and a most respectable 
member of the religious world speculates in hops, or in stock, 
without reproach, and, when he has foiled for thousands, 
fraudulently gambled away, continues to hold shilling whist 
in pious abomination. We have been led to this train of re- 
flection by seeing in a newspaper the speech of a most re- 
spectable Home Missionary, named Smith, at the Mansion- 
house, in which he exults in the horrible catastrophe as " the 
triumph of piety in London !" And this person, no doubt, 
regards the accidental mention of the name of the Supreme 
Being on the stage as blasphemy. It is difficult to express 
one's indignation at such a spirit and such language witliout 
wounding the feelings of those whose opinions of the guilt of 
tlieatrical enjoyments has not rendered them insensible to 
the feelings of others. 

It must be admitted that there is something in the sudden 
death of actors which shocks us peculiarly at the moment, 
because the contrast between life and death seems more vio- 
lent in their case than in that of others. We connect them, 
by the law of association, with our own gayest moments, 
and fancy that they who live to please must lead a life of 
pleasure. Alas ! the truth is often far otherwise. The come- 
dian droops behind the scenes, quite chapfalled ; the tragic 
hero retires from his stately griefs to brood over homely and 
familiar sorrows, which no poetry softens ; the triumphant 



318 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

actress, aiTayed in purple and in pall, may know the pangs 
of despised love, or anticipate the coming on of the time 
when she shall be prematurely old, and as certainly ne- 
glected. The stage is a grave business to those who study 
it even successfully, though its rewards are intoxicating 
enough to turn the most sober brain. The professors in 
misfortune — especially such a misfortune as this — have the 
most urgent claims on our sympathy. Should we allow 
those to be miserable who have so often made us and thou- 
sands happy] Should we shut our hearts against those 
who have touched them so truly ; who have helped to hght- , 
en the weight of existence ; and have made us feel our 
kindred with a world of sorrow and of tears 1 Their art 
has the most sacred right to the protection of humanity, for 
it touches it most nearly. It makes no appeal to posterity ; 
it does not aim at the immortal, in contempt of our perisha- 
ble aims and regards ; but it is contented to live in our en- 
joyments, and to die with them. Its triumphs are not 
diffused by the press, nor recorded in marble, but regis- 
tered on the red-leaved tablets of the heart, satisfied to 
date its fame with the personal existence of its witnesses. 
It forms a part of ourselves ; beats in the quickest pulses of 
our youth, and supplies the choicest topics of our garrulous 
age. It partakes of our fragility, nay even dies before us, 
and leaves its monument in our memories. Surely, then, 
it becomes us "to see the players well bestowed," when 
their gaieties are suddenly and prematurely eclipsed, and 
their short flutterings of vanity stayed before then' time ; or 
to provide for those who depended on their exertions. Of 
all people, they do most for relations ; they hence most de- 
pend on them ; and, therefore, their case both deserves and 
requires our most active sympathy. The call has been, in 
this instance, powerfully made, and will, we hope, be an- 
swered practically by all who revere the genius, and love the 
profession, and partake the humanity of Shakspeare. 



RRST APPEARANXE OF MISS PANNY KEMBLE. 319 



FIRST APPEARANCE OF MISS FANNY 
KEMBLE. 

[New Monthly Magazine.] 

When we predicted, last month, that if Covent Garden 
theatre should be opened at all, it would derive attraction 
even from the extreme depression into which it had sunk, we 
had no idea of the manner in which this hope would be re- 
alized. We little dreamed that the circumstances which had 
threatened to render tliis house desolate, would inspire female 
genius to spring from the family whose honours were inter- 
woven with its destiny, like an infant Minerva, almost per- 
fect at birth, to revive its fortunes and renew its glories. In 
the announcement that, on the opening night, Miss Fanny 
Kemble, known to be a young lady of high literary endow- 
ments, though educated without the slightest view to the 
stage as a profession, would present herself as Juliet— that 
her mother, who, in her retirement, had been followed by the 
grateful recollections of all lovers of the drama, would reap- 
pear, in the part of Lady Capulet, to introduce and support 
her ; and that her father would embody, for the first time, 
that delightful creation of Shakspeare's happiest mood, Mer- 
cutio — there was abundant interest to ensure a fiiU, respecta- 
ble, and excited audience ; but no general expectation had 
gone forth of the splendid event which was to follow. Even 
in our youngest days, we never shared in so anxious a throb 
of expectation as that which awaited the several appearances 
of these personages on the stage. The interest was almost 
too complicated and intense to be borne with pleasure ; and 
when Kemble bounded on the scene, gaily pointed at Ro- 



320 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

meo, as if he had cast all his cares and twenty of his years 
behind him, there was a grateful relief from the first sus- 
pense, that expressed itself in the heartiest enthusiasm Ave 
ever witnessed. Similar testimonies of feeling greeted the 
entrance of Mrs. Kemble ; but our hearts did not breathe 
freely till the fair debutant herself had entered, pale, trembling, 
but resolved, and had found encouragement and shelter in her 
mother's arms. But another and a happier source of interest 
was soon opened ; for the first act did not close tiU aU feai's 
for Miss Kemble's success had been dispelled ; the looks of 
every spectator conveyed that he was electrified by the in- 
fluence of new-tried genius, and was collecting emotions, in 
silence, as he watched its development, to swell its triumph 
with fresh acclamations. For our own part, the illusion that 
she was Shakspeare's own Juliet, came so speedily upon us 
as to suspend the power of specific criticism — so delicious 
was the fascination, that we disliked even the remarks of by- 
standers that disturbed that Olusive spell ; and though, half 
an hour before, we had blessed the applauding bursts of the 
audience, like omens of propitious thunder, we were now 
half impatient of theii' frequency and duration, because they 
intruded on a stUl higher pleasm-e, and because we needed 
no assurance that of Miss Kemble's success was sealed. 

Feeling that the occasion formed an era in our recollections 
of the theatre, we compared her, in our imagination, with all 
the great actresses we had ; and it is singular, though we can 
allege nothing like personal likeness, that Mrs. Jordan was 
the one Avhom she brought back, in the first instance, to our 
memory. We might have set down this idea as purely 
fanciful, if we had not learned that it has crossed the minds 
of other observers. As form and features seem to have no- 
thing to do with this reminiscence, we attribute it to the ex- 
quisite naturalness of Miss Kemble's manner, and we can- 
not help connecting it with an anticipation that she will one 
day be as pre-eminently the comic as the tragic muse of our 
stage. 

Her traits of family resemblance struck us most power- 
fully in the deeper and more earnest parts of her tragic per- 
formance. On one occasion, when her face only was re- 
vealed by her drapery, its intense expression brought Mrs. 
Siddons most vividly back to us. Miss Kemble's personal 



FIRST APPEARANCE OF MISS FANNY KEMBLE. 221 

qualifications for her profession are indeed, such as we might 
expect from one so parented and related. Her head is nobly 
formed and admirably placed on her shoulders — her brow- 
is expansive and shaded by very dark hair — her eyes are 
full of a gifted soul, and her features are significant of in- 
tellect to a very extraordinary degree. Though scarcely 
reaching the middle height, she is finely proportioned, and 
she moves with such dignity and decision that it is only on 
recollection we discover she is not tall. In boldness and 
dignity of action she unquestionably approaches more nearly 
to Mrs. Siddons than any actress of our time excepting 
Pasta. Her voice, whilst it is perfectly feminine in its tones, 
is of great compass, and though, perhaps, not yet entirely 
within her command, gives proof of being able to express 
the sweetest emotions without monotony, and the sternest 
passions without harshness. She seems to know the stage 
by intuition, " as native there and to the manner born," and 
she imderstands even now, by what magic we cannot divine, 
the precise effect she will produce on the most distant spec- 
tators. She treads the stage as if she had been matured by 
the study and practice of years. We dreamed for a while 
of being able to analyze her acting, and to fix in our me- 
mory the finest moments of its power and grace ; but her 
attitudes glide into each other so harmoniously that we at 
last gave up enumerating how often she seemed a study to 
the painter's eye and a vision to the poet's heart. 

At the first sight. Miss Kemble's countenance conveys an 
impression of extraordinary intellect, and the manifestation 
of that faculty is a pervading charm of her acting. It gives 
her courage, it gives her promptitude — the power of seeing 
what is to be done, and of doing it without faltering or hesi- 
tation. She always aims at the highest effect, and almost 
always succeeds in realizing her finest conceptions. 

The Juliet of Shakspeare is young and beautiful ; but no 
mistake can be greater than the idea that her character can 
be impersonated with probability by a merely beautiful 
young woman. Juliet is a being of rich imagination ; her 
eloquence breathes an etherial spirit; and her heroic devo- 
tedness is as different from common-place romance, as su- 
perficial gilding is unlike the solid ore. By nany an ob- 
server, the beautiful surface of her character is alone ap- 
28 



322 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

predated, and not that force and grandeur in it which is 
capable of sustaining itself in harmony, not only with the 
luxuriant commencement of the piece, but with the funereal 
terrors of its tragic close. Hence the expectation has been 
so often excited, that a lovely girl, who can look the cha- 
racter very innocently, and speak the garden-scene very 
prettily, is quite sufficient to be a representative of the he- 
roine throughout; and hence the same expectation has 
been so often disappointed. The debutante may be often 
carried, without apparent failure, through a scene or two, by 
her beauty and pretty manner of love-making ; but when 
the tragedy commences in earnest, her intellectual expres- 
sion sinks under its terrors, and she appears no more than 
a poor young lady, driven mad with the vexation of love. 

Far remote from this description is the Juliet of Miss 
Kemble, It never was our fortune to see Mrs. Siddons in 
the part, but Miss Kemble gives it a depth of tragic tone 
which none of her predecessors whom we have seen ever 
gave to it. Miss O'Neil, loth as we are to forget her fasci- 
nations, used to lighten the earlier scenes of the piece with 
some girlish graces that were accused of being infantine. 
Be that as it may, there were certainly a hundred little pret- 
tinesses enacted by hundreds of novices in the character, 
which attracted habitual applauses, but which Miss Kemble 
at once repudiated with the wise audacity of genius ; at the 
same time, though she blends not a particle of affected girl- 
ishness with the part of Juliet, her youth and her truth still 
leave in it a Shakspearian naivete. As the tragedy deepens, 
her powers are developed in unison with the strengthened 
decision of purpose which the poet gives to the character. 
What a noble effect she produced in that scene where the 
Nurse, who had hitherto been the partner of all her counsels, 
recommends her to marry Paris, and to her astonished excla- 
mation, " Speak'st thou firom thy heart ]" answers, " And 
from my soul, too, or else beshrew them both." At that mo- 
mentous passage Miss Kemble erected her head, and extend- 
ed her arm, with an expressive air which we never saw 
surpassed in acting, and with a power like magic, pronounced 
" Amen !" In that attitude, and look, and word, she made 
us feel that Juliet, so late a nurseling, was now left alone in 
the world — that the child was gone, and that the heroic wo- 



FIRST APPEARANCE OF MISS FANNY KEMBLE. 323 

man had begun her part. By her change of tone and man- 
ner she showed that her heart was wound up to fulfill its 
destiny, and she bids the Nurse " Go in," in a tone of digni- 
fied command. That there was such a change in Juliet we 
have always felt, but to mark its precise moment was re- 
served for this accomplished actress in a single tone. 

It is hardly needless to say, that Mr. Kemble's Mercutio 
was delightful, independent even of the gallant spirit with 
which he carried off the weight of his anxieties on the first 
evening. It was charmingly looked, acted, and spoken — 
with only one little touch of baser matter in the mimickry of 
the Nurse — and closed by a death true to nature, and exhi- 
biting, in milder light, all the brilliant traits of the character. 
Warde showed his good feeling in accepting the part of Friar 
Laurence, and his good taste in speaking the poetry of which 
it is made up : Mrs. Davenport played the Nurse as excel- 
lentiy as she has played it for the last twenty years, and not 
better than she will play it for twenty years to come ; and 
Mrs. Kemble went through the little she had to do in Lady 
Capulet with true motherly grace. 



324 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 



THE MELO-DRAMAS AGAINST GAMBLING. 

(New Monthly Magazine.) 

There is at Paris, where all extremes meet, a kind of sub- 
theatrical public, which makes amends for the severity of the 
orthodox dramatic code, by running Avild after the most ex- 
travagant violations of all rules, and the strangest outrages 
on feeling and taste. Thus the members of this living para- 
dox keep the balance even, and avenge the beautiful and the 
romantic. If they turn away with disgust from the Weird 
Sisters, and defy the magic in the web of Othello's handker- 
chief, they dote on Mr. Cooke in the Monster, and consecrate 
ribands to his fame. If they refuse to pardon the grave- 
diggers in Hamlet, they seek for materials of absorbing in- 
terest in the charnal-house which no divine philosophy 
illmnines. If they refuse to tragedy any larger bounds of 
time than their own classical poets could occupy with frigid 
declamations, they will select three days from distant parts 
of a wi'etcbed and criminal life, in order to exhibit in full 
and odious perfection, the horrors which two fifteen years of 
atrocity can accumulate and mature. Of all the examples 
of the daring side of their eternal antithesis, the melo-drama 
against gambling, produced witWn the last few months, is 
the most extraordinary and the most successful. Each act 
is crowded with incidents, in which the only relief from the 
basest fraud and the most sickening selfishness is to be found 
in deeds which would chill the blood if it had leisure to freeze. 
We do not only " sup full of horrors," but breakfast and dine 
on them also. A youth, who on the eve of his wedding-day 
sells the jewels of his bride to gamble with the price, and who 
deceives her by the most paltry equivocations ; a friend, who 



THE MELO-DRAMAS AGAINST GAMBLING. 325 

supplies this youth with substituted diamonds which he has 
liimself stolen ; a broken-hearted father who dies cursing his 
son ; and a seduction of the wife, filthily attempted while the 
husband is evading the officers of justice, are among the 
attractions which should enchain the attention, and gently 
arouse curiosity in the first act of this fascinating drama. 
The second act, exhibiting the same pair of fiends, after a 
lapse of fifteen years, is replete with appropriate fraud, heart- 
lessness, and misery. But the last act crowns all, and com- 
pletes the " moral lesson." Here, after another fifteen years 
passed in the preparatoiy school of guilt, the hero verging on 
old age is represented as in the most squalid penury — an 
outcast from society, starving with a Avife bent down by 
suffering, and a family of most miserable children crying for 
bread. His first exploit is to plunder a traveller, murder 
him, and hide his body in the sand ; but this is little ; the 
horror is only beginning. While his last murder is literally 
" sticking on his hands," his old tempter and companion, who 
had attempted to seduce his wife and had utterly blasted his 
fortunes, enters his hut, ragged and destitute, and by a few 
sentences rekindles the old love of play, and engages him in 
schemes of fraudulent gaming. After this little scene of more 
subdued interest, the parties leave the hut to inter the corpse 
of the assassinated traveller, and give opportunity for the en- 
trance of the eldest son of the hero, and his recognition by 
his mother. In her brief absence, contrived for this special 
occasion, the friends resolve on murdering the youth, of 
whose name they are ignorant ; the father watches while his 
familiar stabs the stranger on his couch ; and just as the full 
horror is discovered, a thunderbolt sets fire to the dwelling 
of iniquity, and the father hurls his tempter into the flames 
and follows him ! Such is the piece which has delighted the 
dainty critics of Paris, who revolt from Julius Caesar as 
bloody, and characterize Hamlet as " the work of a drunken 
savage." 

But the most offensive circumstance attendant on the pro- 
duction of this bloody trash is the pretence that it is calculated 
to advance the cause of morality by deterring from the pas- 
sion of gambling. What a libel is this on poor human na- 
ture ! Of what stuff" must that nature be made, if it could 

28* 



326 talfouud's miscellaneous writings. 

receive benefit from such shocking pictures as representations 
afifecting it nearly ! No longer must we regard it as a thing 
of passion and weakness, — erring, frail, and misguided, yet 
full of noble impulses and gentle compassions and traits, in- 
dicating a heavenly origin and an immortal home; but 
moulded of low selfishness, and animated by demoniac fiary. 
If earth has ever produced such beings as are here exposed 
on the scene, they are not specimens of any class of humanity, 
but its monsters. And on what mmds is the exhibition to 
operate 1 On such as contain within themselves a conscious 
disposition to its atrocities, if any such there be, or on the 
rest of mankind, who sicken at the sight 1 The first are far 
beyond the reach of the actor's preaching ; the last feel the 
lesson is not for them — if they indulge in gambling, they 
have no fear of murdering their sons, and " their Avithers are 
unwi'ung." In the mean time the " moral lesson," impotent 
for good, has a mischievous power to wear out the sources 
of sympathy, and to produce a dangerous familiarity with 
the forms of guilt, which, according to the solemn warnings 
of Sir Thomas Browne, " have ofi;-times a sin even in their 
histories." " We desire," continues tliis quaint but noble 
writer, " no records of such enormities ; sins should be ac- 
counted new, that so they may be esteemed monstrous; 
they omit of monstrosity as they fall from their rarity ; for 
men count it venial to err with their forefathers, and foolishly 
conceive they divide a sin in its society. The pens of men 
may sufficiently expatiate without these singularities of vll- 
lany ; for, as they increase the hatred of vice in some, so do 
they enlarge the theory of wickedness in all. And this is 
one thing that may make latter ages Avorse than the former; 
for the vicious example of ages past poisons the curiosity of 
these present, affording a hint of sin unto seduceable spirits, 
and soliciting those unto the imitation of them, whose heads 
were never so perversely piincipled as to invent them. In 
things of this nature, silence commendeth histoiy ; it is the 
veniable part of things lost ; wherein there must never rise 
a Pancovillus, nor remain any register but that of Hell," The 
murderous phantasm of Paris will never deter men from be- 
coming gamblers, who have the fatal passion within them, 
but it may assist in making gamblers demons. 



THE MELO-DRAMAS AGAINST GAMBLING. 327 

In London, tliis piece has, we are happy to find, succeeded 
only in the minor houses, where the audience are accustomed 
to look for coarse and violent stimulants. It was first pro- 
duced at the Coburgh ; and, assisted by splendid scenery and 
powerful melo-dramatic acting, was attractive for some time ; 
but has given way to real operas, got up with gi-eat liberality, 
and the gi'aceful performances of a young gentleman named 
Smith, who acts with more taste and feeling than the clever 
aspu'ants of his age usually exhibit. It was afterwards an- 
nounced at both the winter theatres ; but, fortimately for 
Covent-Garden, Drury-Lane obtained the precedence, and 
the good sense of Mr. Kemble profited by the example set 
before him. Here the enormities were somewhat foreshort- 
ened, being compressed into two acts, but unredeemed by a 
single trait of kind or noble emotion. Cooper, as the more 
potent devil, and Wallack, as his disgusting tool, played 
with considerable energy ; but no talent could alleviate the 
mingled sense of sickness and suffocation with which 
theii- slii-ny infamies oppressed the spectators. Although 
much curiosity had been excited, the piece did not draw, 
and was speedily laid aside ; while at Covent-Garden, where 
its annovmcement was dignified by the names of Kemble, 
Ward, and Miss Kelly, it was most wisely suppressed in the 
shell. At the Adelphi, we have been told that it was ren- 
dered somewhat less revolting ; but we could not muster 
courage to face it here, or even to endure it in the improved 
version of the Surrey, where, according to the play-bills, the 
Manager has, " after due correction, reformed his hero, and 
restored him to happiness and virtue." What a fine toucli 
of maudlin morality ! To hear Elliston deliver it from the 
stage, with all the earnestness of his mock-heroic style, we 
would undergo the purgatory with which he tlu'eatens us. 
He is the reforming Quaker of dramatic legislation, and his 
stage, duiing the run of the piece, was a court of ease to 
Brixton, as Drury-Lane was to Newgate. Notliing can 
equal the benevolent discrimination of his theory, except 
that of a popular px'eacher, whom we once heard depre- 
cating tlie orthodox doctrine of the eternity of future pimish- 
ment and cheexing his audience with the invigorating hope, 
that, after being tormented for three hmidred and sixty-five 



328 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

thousand years, the wicked would be made good and happy. 
We are thankful, nevertheless, that Mr. Elliston's tread-mill 
for gamblers has rested with the axes and ropes of his more 
sanguinary rivals ; and that the young gentlemen addicted 
to play have finished their lesson. How it may operate in 
Paris and the neighbourhood of St. James's, will be ascer- 
tained in the ensuing winter. 



ON THE LATE WILLIAM HAZLITT. 129 



ON THE INTELLECTUAL CHARACTER OF 
THE LATE WILLIAM HAZLITT. 

[From "The Examiner" and "The Review of William Haz!itt."] 

As an author, Mr. Hazlitt may be contemplated principally 
in three aspects, — as a moral and political reasoner ; as an 
observer of character and manners ; and as a critic in litera- 
ture and painting. It is in the first character only that he 
should be followed with caution. His metaphysical and po- 
litical essays contain rich treasures, sought with years of 
patient toil, and poured forth with careless prodigality, — ma- 
terials for thinking, a small part of which wisely employed 
will enrich him who makes them his own, — but the choice is 
not wholly unattended with perplexity and danger. He had, 
indeed, as passionate a desire for truth as others have for 
wealth, or power, or fame. The purpose of his research was 
always steady and pure ; and no temptation from without 
could induce him to pervert or to conceal the faith that was 
in him. But, besides that love of truth, that sincerity in pur- 
suing it, and that boldness in telling it, he had earnest aspi- 
rations after the beautiful, a strong sense of pleasure, an 
intense consciousness of his own individual being, which 
broke the current of abstract speculation into dazzling eddies, 
and sometimes turned it astray. The vivid sense of beauty 
may, indeed, have fit home in the breast of the searcher after 
truth, — but then he must also be endowed with the highest 
of all human faculties, the great mediatory and interfusing 
power of Imagination, which presides supreme in the mind, 
brings all its powers and impulses into harmonious action, and 
becomes itself the single organ of all. At its touch, truth be- 



330 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

comes visible in the shapes of beauty ; the faii^est of material 
things appear the living symbols of airy thought ; and the 
mind apprehends the finest affinities of the worlds of sense 
and of spirit " in clear dream and solemn vision." By its aid 
the faculties are not only balanced, but multiplied into each 
other ; are pervaded by one feeling, and directed to one issue. 
But, ^vithout it, the inquirer after truth will sometimes be con- 
founded by too intense a yearning after the grand and the 
lovely, — not, indeed, by an elegant taste, the indulgence of 
which is a graceftil and harmless recreation amidst severer 
studies, but by that passionate regard which quickens the 
pulse, and tingles in the veins, and " hangs upon the beatings 
of the heart. Such was the power of beauty in Hazlitt's 
mind ; and the interfusing faculty was wanting. The spirit, 
indeed, was willing, but the flesh was strong ; and when 
these contend it is not difficult to foretel which will obtain the 
mastery ; for " the power of beauty shall sooner transform 
honesty from what it is into a bawd, than the power of ho- 
nesty shall transform beauty into its likeness." How this 
some-time paradox became exemplified in the writings of one 
whose purpose was always single, may be traced in the his- 
tory of his mind, at which it may be well to glance before 
adverting to the examples. 

William Hazlitt was the son of a dissenting minister, who 
presided over a small Unitarian congregation at Wem, in 
Shropshire. His father was one of those blameless enthusiasts 
who, taking only one view of the question between right and 
power, embrace it with singleness of heart, and hold it fast 
with inflexible purpose. He cherished in his son that attach- 
ment to truth for its own sake, and those habits of fearless 
investigation which are the natural defences of a creed main- 
taining its ground against the indolent force of a wealthy es- 
tablishment, and the fervid attacks of combining sectaries 
without the fascinations of mystery or terror. In the solitude 
of the country, his pupil learned, at an early age, to think. 
But that solitude was something more to him than a noise- 
less study, in which he might fight over the battle between 
Filmer and Locke ; or exult on the shattered dogmas of Cal- 
vin ; or rivet the links of the immortal chain of necessity, 
and strike with the force of ponderous understanding on all 
mental fetters. A temperament of unusual ardour glowed 



ON THE LATE WILLIAM HAZLITT. 331 

amidst those lonely fields, and imparted to the silent objects 
of nature a weight of interest akin to that with which Rous- 
seau has oppressed the picture of his early years. He had 
not then, nor did he find till long afterwards, power to em- 
body his meditations and feelings in words ; the consciousness 
of thoughts which he could not hope adequately to express 
increased his natural reserve ; and he turned for relief to the 
art of painting, in which he might silently realize his dreams 
of beauty, and repay the bounties of nature. A few old 
prints from the old masters awakened the spirit of emulation 
within him; the sense of beauty became identified in his 
mind with that of glory and duration ; while the peaceful 
labour calmed the tumult in his veins, and gave steadiness to 
his pure and distant aim. He pursued the art with an earn- 
estness and patience which he vividly describes in his essay 
" On the Pleasure of Painting;" and to which he frequently 
reverts in some of his most exquisite passages; and, although 
in this, his chosen pursuit, he failed, the passionate desu-e for 
success, and the long struggle to attain it, left deep traces in 
his mind, heightening his strong perception of external things, 
and mingling, with all the thoughts, shapes and hues which 
he had vainly striven to render immortal. A painter may 
acquire a fine insight into the nice distinctions of character, 

— he may copy manners in words as he does in colours, 

but it may be apprehended that his course as a severe rea- 
soner will be somewhat " troubled with thick coming fancies." 
And if the successful pursuit of art may thus disturb the pro- 
cess of abstract contemplation, how much more may an un- 
satisfied passion rufl^e it, bid the dark threads of thought 
glitter with radiant fancies unrealized, and clothe its diagrams 
with the fragments of picture which the hand refused to ex- 
ecute ! What wonder, if, in the mind of an ardent youth, 
thus struggling in vain to give palpable existence to the 
shapes of loveliness which haunted him, "the homely beauty 
ofthe good old cause" should assume the fascinations not 
property its own ! At this time, also, while at once laborious 
and listless, he became the associate of a band of young 
poets of power and promise such as England had not pro- 
duced for two centuries, whose genius had been awakened 
by the rising sun of liberty, and breathed forth most eloquent 
music. Their political creed resembled his own; yet, for 



332 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

the better and more influential part, they were poets, not 
metaphysicians ; and his intercourse with them tended yet 
farther to spread the noble infection of beauty through all his 
thoughts. That they should have partially understood him at 
that time was much, both for them and for him ; for the faculty 
of expression remained imperfect and doubtful until quickened 
at that chosen home of genius and kindness, the fire-side of 
the author of " John Woodvil." There his bashful struggles 
to express the fine conceptions with which his bosom laboured 
were met by entire sympathy ; there he began to stammer 
out his just and original notions of Chaucer and Spenser, and 
old English writers, less talked of, though not less known, by 
their countrymen ; there he was understood and cheered by 
one who thought after their antique mode, and wrote in their 
spirit, and by a lady, " sister every way " to his friend, whose 
fine discernment of his first efforts in conversation, he dwelt 
upon with gratitude even when most out of humour with the 
world. He wrote then slowly, and with great difficulty, 
being, as he himself states in his " Letter to Gifford," " eight 
years in writing as many pages ;" in that austere labour the 
sense of the beautiful was rebuked, and his first work, the 
" Essay on the Principles of Human Action," is composed in 
a style as dry and hard as a mathematical demonstration. 
But when his pen was loosed from its long bondage, the ac- 
cumulated stores of thought and observation pressed upon 
him; images of beauty hovered round him; deep-rooted at- 
tachments to books and works of art, which had been friends 
to him through silent years, glowed for expression, and a 
long arrear of personal resentments struggled to share in the 
masterdom of conscious power. The room of Imagination, 
which would have enabled him to command all his resources, 
and place his rare experiences to their true account, was 
supplied by a will — sufficiently sturdy by nature, and made 
irritable and capricious by the most inexcusable misrepresen- 
tation and abuse with which the virulence of party-spirit ever 
disgraced literary criticism. His works were shamelessly 
garbled ; his person and habits slandered ; and volumes, any 
one page of which contained thought sufficient to supply a 
whole "Quarterly Review," were dismissed with aflTected 
contempt, as the drivelling of an impudent pretender, whose 
judgment was to be estimated by an enthusiastic expression 



ON THE LATE WILLIAM HAZLITT. 333 

torn from its context, and of whose English style a decisive 
specimen was found in an error of the press. Thus was a 
temperament, always fervid, stung into irregular action ; the 
strong regard to things was matched by as vivid a dislike of 
persons ; and the sense of injury joined with the sense of 
beauty to disturb the solemn musings of the philosopher and 
the great hatreds of the patriotjfe. 

One of the most remarkable effects of the strong sense 
of the personal on Hazlitt's abstract speculations, is a habit 
of confounding his own feelings and experiences in relation 
to a subject with proofs of some theory which had grown 
out of them, or had become associated with them. Thus. 
in his " Essay on the Past and the Future," he asserts the 
startling proposition, that the past is, at any given moment, 
of as much consequence to the individual as the future ; 
that he has no more actual interest in what is to come than 
in what has gone by, except so far as he may think himself 
able to avert the future by action ; that whether he was put 
to torture a year ago, or anticipates the rack a year hence, 
is of no importance, if his destiny is so fixed that no effort 
can alter it; and this paradox its author chiefly seeks to 
establish by beautiflil instances of what the past, as matter 
of contemplation, is to thoughtful minds, and in fine glances 
at his individual history. The principal sophism consists in 
varying the aspect in which the past and future are \iewed ; 
— in one paragraph, regarding them as apart from per- 
sonal identity and consciousness, as if a being, who was 
" not a child of time," looked down upon them ; and, in ano- 
ther, speaking in his own person as one who feels the past 
as well as future in the instant. When he quarrels with a 
supposed disputant who would rather not have been Claude, 
because then all would have been over with him, and as- 
serts that it cannot signify when we live, because the value 
of existence is not altered in the course of centuries, he 
takes a stand apart from present consciousness and the 
immediate question — for the desire to have been Claude 
could only be gratified in the consciousness of having been 
Claude — which belongs to the present moment, and implies 
present existence in the party making the choice, though 
for such a moment he might be willing to die. He strays 
still wider fi-om the subject when he observes a treatise on the 
29 



334 talpourd's miscellaneous writings. 

Millennium is dull ; but asks who was ever weary of read- 
ing the fables of the Golden Age 1 for both fables essentially 
belong neither to past nor future, and depend for their interest, 
not on the time to which they are referred, but the vivid- 
ness with which they are drawn. But supposing the Golden 
Age and the Millennium to be happy conditions of being — 
which to our poor, frail, shivering virtue they are not — and 
the proposal to be made, whether we would remember the 
first, or enter upon the last, surely we should " hail the 
coming on of time," and prefer having our store of happi- 
ness yet to expend, to the knowledge that we had just spent 
it ! When Mr. Hazlitt instances the agitation of criminals 
before their trial, and their composure after their con- 
viction, as proofs that if a future event is certain, " it gives 
little more disturbance or emotion than if it had already 
taken place, or were something to happen in another state 
of being, or to another person," he gives an example which 
is perfectly fair, but which every one sees is decisive against 
his theory. If peace followed when hope was no longer 
busy ; if the quiet of indifference was the same thing as the 
stillness of despair ; if the palsy of fear did not partially an- 
ticipate the stroke of death and whiten the devoted head 
with premature age ; there might be some ground for tliis 
sacrifice of the future at the shrme of the past ; but the poor 
wretch who grasps the hand of the chaplain or the under- 
sheriffs clerk, or a turnkey, or an alderman, in convulsive 
agony, as his last hold on life, and declares that he is happy, 
would tell a different tale ! It seems strange that so pro- 
found a thinker, and so fair a reasoner, as Mr. Hazlitt, should 
adduce such a proof of such an hypothesis — but the mys- 
tery is solved when we regard the mass of personal feeling 
he has brought to bear on the subject, and which has made 
his own view of it unsteady. All this picturesque and affect- 
ing retrospection amounts to nothing, or rather tells against 
the argument ; because the store of contemplation which is, 
will ever be while consciousness remains; nay, must in- 
crease even wliile we reckon it, as the present glides into the 
past, and turns another arch over the cave of memory. This 
very possession which he would set agamst the future is the 
only treasure which with certainty belongs to it, and of 
which no change of fortune can deprive him ; and, there- 



ON THE LATE WILLIAM HAZLITT. 335 

fore, it is clear that the essayist mistakes a sentiment for a 
demonstration, when he expatiates upon it as proof of such 
a doctiine. There is nothing affected m the assertion — no 
desire to startle — no playing with the subject or the reader ; 
for of such intellectual trickeries he was incapable ; but an 
honest inistake into which the strong power of personal re- 
collection, and the desire to secure it within the lasting fret- 
work of a theory, drew him. So, when wearied with the 
injustice done to his writings by the profligate misrepresenta- 
tions of the government critics, and the slothful acquiescence 
of the public, and contrasting with it the success of the 
sturdy players at his favourite game of Jives, which no one 
could question, he wrote elaborate essays* to prove the su- 
periority of physical qualifications to those of intellect — flill 
of happy illustrations and striking instances, and containing 
one inimitable bit of truth and pathos " On the Death of 
Cavanagh," — but all beside the mark — proving nothing but 
that which required no proof — that corporeal strength and 
beauty are more speedily and more surely appreciated than 
the products of genius ; and leaving the essential differences 
of the two, of the transitory and the lasting — of that which 
is confined to a few barren spectators, and that which is 
diffused through the hearts and affections of thousands, and 
fructifies and expands in generations yet unborn, and con- 
nects its author with far distant times, not by cold renown, 
but by the links of living sympathy — to be exemplified in 
the very essay which would decry it, and to be nobly vin- 
dicated by its author at other times, when he shows, and 
makes us feel, that " words are the only things which last 
for ever."t So his attacks on the doctrine of utUity, which 
were provoked by the cold extravagancies of some of its sup- 
porters, consist of noble and passionate eulogies on the 
graces, pleasures, and ornaments, of life, which leave the 
theory itself, with which all these are consistent, precisely 
where it was. So his " Essays on Mr. Owen's View of So- 
ciety " are full of exquisite banter, well-directed against the 
individual: of unanswerable expositions, of the falsehood of 



* "On the Indian Jujrglers," and "On the Disadvantages of In- 
lellcctnal Superiorit}'." 

t " On Thought and Action." 



336 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

his pretensions to novelty and. of the quackery by which he 
attempted to render them notorious ; of happy satire against 
the aristocratic and religious patronage which he sought and 
obtained for schemes which were tolerated by the great be- 
cause they were believed by them to be impracticable ; but 
the truth of the principal idea itself remains almost un- 
touched. In these instances the personal has prevailed over 
the abstract in the mind of the thinker ; his else clear intel- 
lectual vision has been obscured by the intervention of his 
own recollections, loves, resentments, or fancies; and the 
real outlines of the subject have been overgrown by the ex- 
uberent fertility of the region which bordered upon them. 

The same causes duninished the immediate effect of Mr. 
Hazlitt's political writings. It was the fashion to denounce 
him as a sour Jacobin ; but no description could be more 
unjust. Under the influence of some bitter feeling, he occa- 
sionally poured out a furious invective against those whom 
he regarded as the enemies of liberty, or the apostates from ■ 
its cause; but, in general, his force was diverted (uncon- 
sciously to himself) by figures and fantasies, by fine and 
quaint allusions, by quotations from Ms favourite authors, 
introduced with singular felicity as respects the direct link of 
association, but tending by their very beauty to unnerve the 
mind of the reader, and substitute the sense of luxury for that 
of hatred or anger. In some of his essays, when the reason- 
ing is most cogent, every other sentence contains some ex- 
quisite passage from Shakspeare, or Fletcher, or Words- 
worth, trailing after it a line of golden associations — or some 
reference to a novel, over which we have a thousand times 
forgotten the wrongs of mankind ; till in the recurring shock 
of pleasurable sui-prise, the main argument escapes us. 
When, for example, he compares the position of certain 
political waverei's to that of Clarissa Harlowe when Love- 
lace would repeat his outrage, and describes them as having 
been, like her, trepanned into a house of ill-fame near Pall 
Mall, and defending their soiled virtue with their pen-knives, — 
who, at the suggestion of the stupendous scene which the 
allusion directly revives, can think or care about the renegade 
of yesterday ] Here, again, is felt the want of that imagina- 
tion which brings all things into one, tinges all our thoughts 
and sympathies with one joyous or solemn hue, and rejects 



ox THE LATE WILLIAM HAZLITT. 337 

every ornament which does not heighten or prolong tiie 
feeling which is proper to the design. Even when Mr. 
Hazlitt retaliates on Mr. Southey for attacking his old co- 
patriots, the poetical associations which bitter remembrance 
suggests almost neutralize the attack, else overpowering ; he 
brings every " flower which sad embroidery wears to strew 
the laureate hearse" where patriotism is interred; and di- 
verts our indignation and his own by affecting references to 
an early friendship. So little does he regard the unity of his 
compositions, that in his " Letter to Giffbrd," after a series of 
the most just and bitter retorts on his maligner, — " the fine 
link which connected literature with the police" — he takes a 
fancy to teach that " Ultra-crepidarian Critic" his own theory 
of the natural disinterestedness of the human mind, and de- 
velopes it — not now in the mathematical style in which it 
was first enunciated, but " o'er-informed" with the glow of 
sentiment, and terminating in an eloquent rhapsody. This 
latter part of the letter is one of the noblest of his effusions, 
but it entirely destroys the first in the mind of the reader ; 
for who, when thus contemplating the living wheels on which 
human benevolence is borne onward in its triumpliant career, 
and the spirit with which they are instinct, can think of the 
poor wasp settled upon them, and who was just before trans- 
fixed with minikin arrows ■? 

But the most signal result which " the shows of things" 
had over Mr. Hazlitt's mind, was his setting up the Emperor 
Napoleon as his idol. He strove to justify this predilectioi^ 
to himself by referring it to the revolutionary origin of his 
hero, and the contempt with which he trampled upon the 
claims of legitimacy, and humbled the pride of kings. But 
if his " only love" thus sprung " from his only hate," it was 
not wholly cherished by antipathies. If there had been no- 
thing in his mind which tended to aggrandizement and glory, 
and which would fain reconcile the principles of liberty with 
the lavish accumulation of power, he might have desired tlie 
triumph of young tyranny over legitimate thrones ; but he 
would scarcely have watched its progress " like a lover and 
a child." His feeling for Bonaparte was not a sentiment of 
respect for fallen greatness ; not a desire to trace " the soul 
of goodness in things evil ;" not a loaihing of the treatment 
the Emperor received from " his cousin kings" in the day of 
29* 



338 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

adversity ; but entire affection niingling with the current of 
the blood, and pervading the moral and intellectual being.* 
Nothing less than this strong attachment, at once personal 
and refined, would have enabled him to encounter the toil 
of collecting and arranging facts and dates for four volumes 
of narrative ; — a drudgery too abhorrent to his habits of 
mind as a thinker, to be sustained by any stimulus which 
the prospect of wealth or reputation could supply. It is not 
so much in the Ingenious excuses which he discovers for the 
worst acts of his hero, even for the midnight execution of the 
Duke d'Elnghein, and the invasion of Spain, that the stamp 
of pei'sonal devotion is obvious, as in the graphic force with 
which he has delineated the short-lived splendours of the 
Imperial Court, and " the trivial fond records" he has gathered 
of every vestige of human feeling by which he could recon- 
cile the Emperor to his mind. The first two volumes of the 
" Life of Napoleon," although redeemed by scattered thoughts 
. of true originality and depth, are often confused and spirit- 
less; the characters of the principal revolutionists are drawn 
too much in the style of caricatures; but when the hero 
throws all his rivals into the distance, erects himself the in- 
dividual enemy of England, consecrates his power by reli- 
gious ceremonies, and defines it by the circle of a crown, 
the author's strength becomes concentrated, his narrative 
assumes an epic dignity and fervour, and glows with " the 
long-resounding march and energy divine." How happy 
and proud is he to picture the meeting of Napoleon with the 

* Proofs of the singular fascination which the idea of Bonaparte 
created on Mr, liazlitt's mind abound in his writings. One example 
of which suffices to show how it mingled with his most passionate 
thoughts — his earliest aspirations, and his latest sympathies. Having 
referred to some association which revived the memory of his hap- 
piest days, he breathes out into this rhapsody : — " As I look on the 
long-neglected copy of the Death of Clorinda, golden dreams play 
upon the canvass as they used when I painted it. The flowers of 
Hope and Joy springing up in my mind, recall the time when they 
first bloomed there. The years that are fled knock at the door and 
enter. I am in the Louvre once more. The Sun of Auste.rlitz has not 
set. It shines here, in my heart ; and he the Son of Glory is. not 
dead, nor ever shall be to me, I am as when my life began." — See 
the Essay on "Great and Little Things:" Table Talk, voJ. ii., 
p. 17L 



ON THE LATE "WILLIAM HAZLITT. 



339 



Pope and the grandeurs of the coronation ! How he grows 
wanton in celebrating the fetes of the Tuileries, as " present- 
ing all the elegance of enchanted pageants," and laments 
them as " gone like a fairy revel !" How he " lives along the 
line" of Austerlitz, and rejoices in its thunder, and hails its 
setting sun, and exults in the minutest details of the subse- 
quent meeting of the conquered sovereigns with the con- 
queror ! How he expatiates on the fatal marriage with " the 
deadly Austrian," (as Mr. Cobbett justly called that most 
heartless of her sex) as though it were a chapter in romance, 
and added the grace of beauty to the imperial picture ! How 
he kindles with martial ardour as he describes the prepara- 
tions for the expedition against Russia ; musters the myriads 
of barbarians with a show of dramatic justice ; and fondly 
lingers among the brief triumphs of Moskwa on the verge of 
the terrible catastrophe ! The narrative of that disastrous 
expedition is, indeed, written with a master's hand ; we see 
the " Grand Army" marching to its destruction through the 
immense perspective ; the wild hordes flying before the ter- 
rour of its " coming ;" the barbaric magnificence of Moscow 
towering in the far distance ; and when we gaze upon the 
sacrificial conflagration of the Kremlin, we feel that it is the 
funeral pile of the conqueror's glories. It is well for the 
readers of this splendid work, that there is more m it of the 
painter than of the metaphysician ; that its style glows with 
the fen'our of battfle, or stiffens with the spoils of victory ; 
yet we wonder that this monument to iinperial grandeur 
should be raised from the dead level of Jacobmism by an 
honest and profound thinker. The solution is, that although 
he was this, he was also more — that, in opinion, he was de- 
voted to the cause of the people ; but that, in feeling, he 
required some individual object of worship ; that he selected 
Napoleon as one in whose origin and career he might im- 
personate his principles and gratify his affections ; and that 
he adhered to his own idea with heroic obstinacy when the 
" child and champion of the republic" openly sought to re- 
press all feeling and thought, but such as he could cast in 
his own iron moulds, and scoffed at popular enthusiasm 
even whUe it bore him to the accomplishment of his loftiest 
desires. 

If the experiences and the sympathies which acted so 
powerfully on the mind of Hazlitt, detract somewhat from 



340 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

his authority as a reasoner, they give an unprecedented in- 
terest and value to his essays on character and books. The 
excellence of these works differ not so much in degree as in 
kind from that of all others of their class. There is a weight 
and substance about them, which makes us feel that amidst 
all their nice and dexterous analysis, they are, in no small 
measure, creations. The quantity of thought which is accu- 
mulated upon his favourite subjects ; the variety and richness 
of the illustrations ; and the strong sense of beauty and plea- 
sure which pervades and animates the composition, give 
them a place, if not above, yet apart from the writings of all 
other essayists. They have not, indeed, the dramatic charm 
of the old " Spectator " and " Ta^er," nor the airy touch 
with which Addison and Steele skimmed along the surface 
of many-coloured life ; but they disclose the subtle essences 
of character, and trace the secret springs of the affections 
with a more learned and penetrating sphit of human dealing 
than either. The intense interest which he takes in his 
theme, and which prompts him to adorn it lavishly with the 
spoils of many an intellectual struggle, commends it to the 
feelings as well as the understanding, and makes the thread 
of his argument seem to us like a fibre of our own moral 
being. Thus his essay on " Pedantry," seems, within its few 
pages, to condense not only all that can be sai(f, but all that 
can be fel/, on the happiness which we derive fi'om the force 
of habit, on the softening influences of blameless vanity, and 
on the moral and picturesque effect of those peculiarities of 
mannei", arising from professional associations, which diversify 
and emboss the plain ground-work of modern life. Thus, 
his character of Rousseau is not merely a just estimate of 
the extraordinary person to whom it relates, but is so imbued 
with the predominant feeling of his works that they seem to 
glide in review before us, and we rise from the essayist as if 
we had perused the " Confessions " anew with him, and had 
partaken in the strong sympathy which they excited within 
him during the happiest summers of his youth. Thus, his 
paper on " Actors and Acting," breathes the very soul of 
abandonment to impulse and heedless enjoyment, affording 
glimpses of those brief triumphs which make a stroller's ca- 
reer " less forlorn," and presenting mirrors to the stage in 
which its grand and affecting images, themselves reflected 
from nature, are yet farther prolonged and multiplied. His 



ON THE LATE WILLIAM HAZLITT. 341 

indi%idual porti'aits of friends and enemies are hit off with all 
the strength of hatred or affection, neither mitigated by cour- 
tesy nor mistrust: — partial, as they embrace, at most, only 
one aspect of the character, but startling in their Aividness, 
and productive of infinite amusement to those who are ac- 
quainted with the origmals. It must be conceded that these 
personal references were sometimes made with unjustifiable 
fi-eedom ; but they were more rarely prompted by malice 
prepense, than by his strong consciousness of the eccentricities 
of mankind, which pressed upon him for expression, and irri- 
tated his pen into sathic picture. And when this keen obser- 
vance was exerted on scenes in which he delighted — as the 
Wednesday evening parties of Mr. Lamb's — how fine, how 
genied, how happy his delineations ! How he gathers up the 
precious moments, when poets and artists known to fame, 
and men of fancy and wit yet unexhausted by publication, 
met in careless pleasure ; and distils their finest essence. And 
if sometimes the temptation of making a spiteful liit at one of 
his friends was too m'gent for resistance, what amends he 
made by some oblique compliment, at once as hearty and as 
refined as those by which Pope has made those whom he 
loved immortal. But these essays, in which the spu"it of 
personality sometimes runs riot, are inferior, in our appre- 
hension, to those in which it warms and peoples more ab- 
stracted views of himianity — not purely metaphysical rea- 
sonings, which it tended to disturb,* nor political disquisitions 

* Of the writers since Hume, who have written on metaphysics 
with the severity proper to the subject, are Mr. Fearne, the author 
of the Essay on ''Consciousness," and Lady Mary Shepherd, whose 
works on " Cause and Effect" are amongst the most remarkable pro- 
ductions of the ag-e. Beattie, Dugald Stewart, Dr. Brown, and his 
imitators, turned what should have been abstract reasoning " to fa- 
vour and to prettiness." Mr. Hazlitt obscured it by thickly clustered 
associations; and Coleridge presented it in the masquerade of a gor- 
geous fancy. Lady Mary Shepherd, on the other hand, is a thinker 
of as much honesty as courage; her speculations are colourless, and 
leave nothing on the mind but the fine-drawn lines of thought. Cole- 
ridge addressing the Duchess of Devonshire, on a spirited verse 
she had written on the heroism of Tell, asks — 

"O lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure, 
Where got ye that heroic measure?" 
The poet might have found in the reasonings of Lady Mary Shep- 
herd a worthier object of admiration than in the little stanza whicti 
seemed so extraordiaary an e.^f.jrt for a lady of fashion. 



342 talfourd's miscellaneous writings, 

which it checked and turned from their aim ; but estimates 
of the high condition and solemn incidents of our nature. 
Of this class, his papers on the " Love of Life," on the " Fear 
of Death," on the " Reasons why Distant Objects Please," on 
" Antiquity," on the " Love of the Country," and on " Living 
to Oneself," are choice specimens, written with equal earnest- 
ness and ingenuity, and full of noble pieces of retrospection 
on his own past being. Beyond their immediate objects of 
contemplation, there is always opened a moral perspective ; 
and the tender hues of memory gleam and tremble over 
them. 

" Books," says Mr. Wordsworth, " are a substantial world," 
and surely those on which Hazlitt has expatiated with true 
regard, have assumed, to our apprehensions, a stouter realitj'' 
since we surveyed them through the medium of his mind. 
In general, the effect of criticism, even when fairly and ten- 
derly applied, is the reverse of this ; for the very process of 
subjecting the creations of the poet and the novelist to ex- 
amination as works of art, and of estimating the force of 
passion or of habit, as exemplified in them, so necessarily 
implies that they are but the shadows of thought, as insen- 
sibly to dissipate the illusion which our dreamy youth had 
perchance cast around them. But in all that Hazlitt has 
written on old English authors, he is seldom merely critical. 
His masterly exposition of that huge book of fantastical falla- 
cies, the vaunted " Arcadia " of Sir Philip Sidney,* stands 
almost alone in his works as a specimen of the mere power 
of unerring dissection and impartial judgment. In the labora- 
tory of his intellect, analysis was turned to the sweet uses of 
alchemy. While he discourses of characters he has known 
the longest, he sheds over them the light of his own boyhood, 
and makes us partakers of that realizing power by which 
they become creatures of flesh and blood, with whom we 
may eat, drink, and be merry. He bids us enjoy aU that he 
has enjoyed in their society ; invites us to gaze, as he did 
fiirst, on that setting sun which Schiller's heroic Robber 
watched in his sadness, and makes us feel that to us " that 
sun will never set ;" or introduces us to honest old Deckar 
on the borders of Salisbury Plain, when he struck a bargain 

* Lectures on the Age of Elizabeth. — Lecture VI. 



ON THE LATE WILLIAM HAZHTT. 343 

for life with the best creation of the poet's genius. " After a 
long walk " with him " through unfrequented tracks — after 
starting the hare from the fern, or hearing the wing of the 
raven rustle above our heads, being greeted by the wood- 
man's stern ' good night,' as he strikes into his narrow home- 
ward path," we too " take our ease at our inn beside the 
blazing hearth, and shake hands with Signor Orlando Fris- 
cobaldo as the oldest acquaintance we have."* He has in- 
creased our personal knowledge of Don Q,uixote, of John 
Buncle, of Parson Adams, of Pamela, of Clarissa Harlowe, of 
Lovelace, of Sir Roger de Coverly, and a hundred other un- 
dying teachers of humanity, and placed us on nearer and 
dearer terms with them. His cordial warmth brings out 
theu" pleasantest and most characteristic traits as heat makes 
visible the writing which a lover's caution has traced in co- 
lourless liquid ; and he thus attests their reality with an evi- 
dence like that of the senses. He restored the " Beggar's 
Opera," which had been long treated as a burlesque appen- 
dage to the " Newgate Calendar," to its proper station ; 
showing how the depth of the design, and the brilliancy of 
the workmanship, had been overlooked in the palpable coarse- 
ness of the materials ; and tracing instances of pathos and 
germs of morality amidst scenes which the world had agreed 
to censure and to enjoy as vulgar and immoral.f He revels 
in the delights of old English comedy; exhibits the soul of art 
in its town-born graces, and the spirit of gaiety in its mirth ; 
detects for us a more delicate flavour in the wit of Congreve, 
and lights up the age of Charles the Second, " when kings 
and nobles led purely ornamental lives," with the airy and 
harmless splendour in which it streamed upon him amidst 
rustic manners and Presbyterian virtues. But his accounts 

* Lectures on the Age of Elizabeth. — Lecture III. 

t This exquisite morsel of criticism (if that name be proper) first 
appeared in the " Morning Chronicle," as an introduction to the ac- 
count of the first appearance of Miss Stephens in " Polly Peachum" 
(her second character) — an occasion worthy to be so celebrated — but 
not exciting any hope of such an article. What a surprise it was to 
read it for the first time, amidst the tempered patriotism and mea- 
sured praise of Mr. Perry's columns ! It was afterwards printed in 
the " Round Table," and (being justly a favourite of its author) found 
fit place in his "Lectures on the Englisih Poets." — See Lecture VL 



344 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

of many of the dramatists of Shakspeare's age are less happy ; 
for he had no early acquaintance with these that he should 
receive them into his own heart, and commend them to ours : 
he read them, that he might lecture upon them, — and he lec- 
tures upon them for effect, not for love. With the exception 
of a single character, that of Sir Orlando Friscobaldo, whom 
he recognised at first sight as one with whose qualities he 
had been long familiar, they did not touch him nearly ; and, 
therefore, his comments upon them are comparatively meager 
and turgid, and he gladly escapes from them into " wise saws 
and modern instances." The light of his own experience 
does not thicken about their scenes. His notices of Marlow, 
Heywood, Middleton, Marston, Deckar, Chapman, Webster, 
and Ford, do not let us half so far into the secret of these 
extraordinary writers as the notes which Mr. Lamb has 
scattered (stray gifts of beauty and wisdom) through the little 
volume of his " Specimens ;" imbued with the very feeling 
which swelled and crimsoned in their intensest passages, and 
coming ob the listening mind like strains of antique melody, 
breathed from the midst of that wild and solemn region in 
which their natural magic wrought its wonders. His regard 
for Beaumont and Fletcher is more hearty, and his apprecia- 
tibn of scattered excellencies in them as fine as can be wished ; 
but he does not seem to apprehend the pervading spirit of 
their dramas, — the mere spirit of careless grace and fleeting 
beauty, which made the walk of tragedy a fairy land ; turned 
passions and motives to its own sweet will; annihilated 
space and time ; and sheds its rainbow hues with bountiful 
indifference on the just and the unjust ; represented virtue 
as a happy accident, vice as a wayward fancy ; and changed 
one for the other in the same person by sovereign caprice, 
as by a touch of Harlequin's wand, leaving "nothing serious 
in mortality," but reducing the struggle of life to an heroic 
game, to be played splendidly out, and left without a sigh. 
Nor does he pierce through the hard and knotty rind of Ben 
Jonson's manner, which alone, in our time, has been entirely 
penetrated by the author of the " Merchant of London," who, 
when a mere lad, grappled with this tough subject and mas- 
tered it ;* and whose long and earnest aspiration after a kin- 

* "Retrospective Review," vol. i, pp. 181 — 206. 



ON THE LATE WILLIAM HAZLITT. 345 

dred force and beauty with this and other idols of his serious 
boyhood, is not, even now, wholly unfulfilled ! 

Of Shakspeare's genius Mr. Hazlitt has written largely 
and well; but there is more felicity in his incidental re- 
ferences to this great subject, than in those elaborate 
essays upon it, which fill the volume entitled " Characters of 
Shakspeare's Plays." In reading them we are fatigued by 
perpetual eulogy, — not because we deem it excessive, but 
because we observe in it a- constant straining to express an 
admiration too vast for any style. There is so much sug- 
gested by the poet to each individual mind, which blends 
with, and colours its own most profound meditations and 
dearest feelings, without assuming a distinct form, that we 
resent the laborious efforts of another to body forth his own 
ideas of our common inheritance, unless they vindicate them- 
selves by entire success, as intruding on the holy ground of 
our own thoughts. Mr. Lamb's brief glance at " Lear " is 
the only instance of a commentary on one of Shakspeare's 
four great tragedies which ever appeared to us entirely 
worthy of the original ; and this, indeed, seems to prolong, 
and even to heighten, the feeling of the tremendous scenes 
to which it applies, and to make compensation for displacing 
our own dim and faint conceptions, long cherished as they 
were, by the huge image clearly reflected in another's mind. 
There is nothing approaching to this excellence in Mr. Haz- 
litt's account of " Lear," of " Hamlet," of " Othello," or of 
" Macbeth." He piles epithet on epithet in a vain attempt 
to reach " the height of his great argument ;" or trifles with 
the subject, in despair of giving adequate expression to his 
own feelings respecting it. Nor is his essay on " Romeo 
and Juliet " more successful ; for here, unable to find lan- 
guage which may breathe the sense of love and joy which 
the play awakens, he attacks Wordsworth's " Ode on the 
Intimations of Immortality in Early Childhood," because it 
refers the glory of our intellectual being to a season antece- 
dent to the dawn of passion ; as if there was any common 
3tandard for the most delicious of all plays of which love is the 
essence, and the noblest train of philosophic thought which 
ever " voluntary moved harmonious numbers ;" as if each 
had not a truth of its own ; or as if there was not room 
enough in the great world of poetry for both ! When thus 
30 



,, *■■ 
346 talpourd's miscellaneous writings. 

reduced, by conscious inability to grasp the subject, into 
vague declamation, he was lost; but wherever he found 
" jutting freeze or cornice " to lodge the store of his own re- 
flections, as in estimating the aristocratic pride of « Coriola- 
nus," he was excellent ; still better where he could mingle 
the remembrances of sportive childhood with the poet's fan- 
tasies, as in describing the " Midsummer Night's Dream ;" 
and best of all when he could vindicate his own hatred of 
the sickly cant of mortality, and his sense of hearty and wise 
enjoyment, by precept and example such as " The Twelfth 
Night" gave him. In these instances, his own peculiar fa- 
culty, as a commentator on the writings of others, — that of 
enriching his criticism by congenial associations, and, at the 
same time, infxising into it the spirit of his author, thus " steal- 
ing and giving odour " — had free scope, while the greatest 
tragedies remained beyond the reach of all earthly influence, 
too far withdrawn " ui the highest heaven of invention," to 
be affected by any atmosphere of sentiment he might inhale 
himself, or shed around others. 

The strong sense of pleasure, both intellectual and physi- 
cal, naturally produced in Hazlitt a rooted attachment to the 
theatre, where the delights of the mind and the senses are 
blended ; where the grandeur of the poet's conceptions is, 
in some degree, made palpable, and luxury is raised and re- 
fined by wft, sentiment, and fancy. His dramatic criticisms 
are more pregnant with fine thoughts on that bright epito- 
me of human life than any others which ever were written ; 
yet they are often more successftil in making us forget their 
immediate subjects than in doing them justice. He began to 
write with a rich fund of theatrical recollections ; and, ex- 
cept when Kean, or Miss Stephens, or Liston suppUed new 
and decided impulses, he did little more than draw upon this 
old treasury. The theatre to hhn was redolent of the past: 
images of Siddons, of Kemble, of Bannister, of Jordan, 
thickened the air ; imperfect recognitions of a hundred even- 
ings, when mirth or sympathy had loosened the pressure at 
the heart, and set the springs of life in happier motion, 
thronged around him, and " more than echoes talked along 
the walls." He loved the theatre for these associations, 
and for the immediate pleasure which it gave to thousands 
about him, and the humanizing influences it shed among 



OK THE LATE WILLIAM HAZLITT. 347 

them, and attended it with constancy to the veiy last ;* and 
to those personal feelings and universal sympathies he gave 
fit expression ; but his habits of mind were unsuited to the 
ordinary duties of the critic. The players put him out. He 
could not, like Mr. Leigh Hunt, who gave theatrical criti- 
cism a place in modern literature, apply his graphic powers 
to a detail of a performance, and make it interesting by the 
delicacy of the touch; encrystal the cobweb intricacies of a 
plot with the sparkling dew of his own fancy — bid the light 
plume wave in the fluttering grace of his style — or '• catch 
ere she fell the Cynthia of the minute," and fix the airy 
charm in lasting words. In criticism, thus just and pictu- 
resque, Mr. Hunt has never been approached ; and the won- 
der is, that, instead of falling off" with the art of acting, he 
even grew richer ; for the articles of the " Tatler," equalling 
those of the " Examiner " in niceness of discrimination, are 
superior to them in depth and colouring. But Hazlitt re- 
quired a more powerful impulse ; he never wrote willingly, 
except on what was great in itself, or, forming a portion of 
his own past being, was great to him ; and when both these 
felicities combined in the subject, he was best of all — as upon 
Kemble and Mrs. Siddons. Mr. Kean satisfied the first re- 
quisite only, but in the highest possible degree. His extra- 
ordinary vigour struck Hazlitt, who attended the theatre for 
the " Morning Chronicle,"' on the night of his debut, in the 
very first scene, and who, from that night, became the most 
devoted and efficient of his supporters. Yet if, on principle, 
Hazlitt preferred Kean to Kemble, and sometimes drew pa- 
rallels between them disparaging to the idol of his earlier 
affections, there is nothing half so fine in his eloquent eulo- 
gies on the first, as m his occasional recurrences to the last, 
when the stately form wliich had realized full many a boy- 
ish dream of Roman greatness " came back upon his lieart 
again," and seemed to reproach him for his late preference 
of the passionate to the ideal. He criticised new plays with 
a reluctant and indecisive hand, except when strong friend- 
ship supplied the place of old recollection, as in the instances 



* See his article entitled " The Free Admission," in tlie " New 
Monthly Magazine," vol. xxix. p. 93; one of his last, and one of hia 
most characteristic effusions. 



348 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

of Barry Cornwall and Sheridan KJnowles — the first of 
whom, not exhausting all the sweetness of his nature in 
scenes of fanciful tenderness and gentle sorrow, cheered him 
by unwearied kindness in hours of the greatest need — and 
the last, as kind and as true, had, even from a boy, been the 
object of his warmest esteem. He rejoiced to observe his 
true-hearted pupil manifesting a dramatic instinct akin to that 
of the old masters of passion — like them forgetting himself 
in his subject, and contented to see fair play between his 
persons — working all his interest out of the purest affections, 
Avhich might beat indeed beneath the armour of old Rome, 
and beside its domestic hearths, but belong to all time — and 
finding an actor who, with taste and skill to preserve his im- 
studied grace, had heart enough to send his honest homely 
touches to the hearts of thousands. Would that Hazlitt had 
lived to witness the success of the " Hunchback" — not that 
it is better than the plays which he did see, but that he 
would have exulted to find the town surprised for once into 
justice, recognising the pathos and beauty which had been 
among them unappreciated so long, and paying part of that 
debt to the living author, which he feared they would leave 
for posterity to acknowledge in vain ! 

Mr. Hazlitt's criticisms on pictures are, as we have been in- 
formed by persons competent to judge, and believe, masterly. 
Of their justice we are unable to form an opinion for our- 
selves ; but we know that they are instinct with earnest de- 
votion to art, and rich with illustrations of its beauties. Ac- 
counts of paintings are too often either made up of technical 
terms, which convey no meaning to the uninitiated, or of 
florid description of the scenes represented, with scarce an 
allusion to the skill by which the painter has succeeded in 
emulating nature ; but Hazlitt's early aspirations, and fond 
endeavours after excellence in the art, preserved him ef- 
fectually from these errors. He regarded the subject with a 
perfect love. No gusty passion here ruffied the course of 
his thoughts: all his imtatility was soothed, and all his dis- 
appointments forgotten, before the silent miracles of human 
genius ; and his own vain attempts, fondly remembered, in- 
stead of exciting envy of the success of others, heightened 
his sense of their merit, and his pleasure and pride in accu- 
mulating honoui's on their names. Mr. Hunt says of these 



0:\ Till: LATE VtlLLIAM HAZLITT. 349 

essays, that they " throw a light on art as from a painted 
window," — a sentence which, in its few words, chraracterizcs 
them all, and leaves nothing to be wished or added. 

In person, Mr. Hazlitt was of the middle size, with a hand- 
some and eager countenance, worn by sickness and thought ; 
and dark hair, which had curled stiffly over the temples, and 
was only of late years sprinkled with gray. His gait was 
slouching and awkward, and his dress neglected; but when 
iie began to talk he could not be mistaken for a common 
man. In the company of persons with whom he was not 
familiar his baslifulness was painful ; but when he became 
entirely at ease, and entered on a favourite topic, no one's 
conversation was ever more delightful. He did not talk for 
effect, to dazzle, or surprise, or annoy, but with the most 
simple and honest desire to make his view of the subject en- 
tirely apprehended by his hearer. There was sometimes an 
obvious struggle to do this to his own satisfaction : he seemed 
labouring to drag his thought to light from its deep lurking 
place; and, with modest distrust of that power of expression 
which he had found so late in life, he often betrayed a fear that 
lie had failed to make himself understood, and recurred to 
the subject again and again, that he might be assured he had 
succeeded. In argument, he was candid and liberal : there 
was nothing about him pragmatical or exclusive ; he never 
drove a prhiciple to its utmost possible consequences, but 
like Locksley, "allowed for the wind." For some years 
previous to his death, he observed an entire abstinence from 
fermented liquors, which he had once quaffed with the proper 
relish he had for all the good things of this life, but which lie 
courageously resigned when he found the indulgence peril- 
ous to his health and faculties. The cheerfulness with which 
he made this sacrifice always appeared to us one of the most 
amiable traits in his character. He had no censure for others, 
who with the same motives were less wise or less resolute ; 
nor did he think he had earned, by his own constancy, any 
riglit to intrude advice wliich he knew, if wanted, must be 
unavailing. Nor did he profess to be a convert to the 
general system of abstinence which was advocated by one 
of his kindest and stanchest friends: he avowed that he 
yielded to necessity; and instead of avoiding the sight of 
that which he could no longer taste, lie was seldom sa happy 

30* 



350 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

as when he sat with friends at theii' wine, participating the 
sociality of the time, and renewing his own past enjoyment 
in that of his companions, without regret and without envy. 
Like Dr. Johnson, he made himself poor amends for the 
loss of wine by drinking tea, not so largely, indeed, as the 
hero of Boswell, but at least of equal potency — for he might 
have challenged Mrs. Thrale and all her sex to make stronger 
tea than his own. In society, as in politics, he was no flincher. 
He loved "to hear the chimes at midnight," without con- 
sidering them as a summons to rise. At these seasons, when 
in his happiest mood, he used to dwell on the conversational 
powers of his friends, and live over again the delightful hours 
he had passed with them ; repeat the pregnant puns that one 
had made ; tell over again a story with which another had 
convulsed the room ; or expand in the eloquence of a third ; 
always best pleased when he could detect some talent which 
was unregarded by the world, and giving alike, to the cele- 
brated and the unknown, due honour. 

Mr. Hazlitt delivered three courses of Lectures at the 
Surrey Institution, to the matter of which we have repeatedly 
alluded— on The English Foets ,■ on The English Comic. 
Writ erf:, and on The Sge of Elizabeth — before audiences 
with whom he had but "an imperfect sympathy." They 
consisted chiefly of Dissenters, Avho agreed with him in his 
hatred of Lord Castlereagh, but who " loved no plays ;" of 
Gluakers, who approved him as the opponent of Slavery and 
Capital Punishment, but who " heard no music ;" of citizens, 
devoted to the main chance, who had a hankering after " the 
improvement of the mind," but to whom his favourite doc- 
trine of its natural disinterestedness was a riddle ; of a few 
enemies, who cam-e to sneer ; and a few friends, who were 
eager to learn and to admire. The comparative insensibility 
of the bulk of his audience to his finest passages, sometimes 
provoked him to awaken their attention by points which 
broke the train of his discourse, after which he could make 
himself amends by some abrupt paradox which might set 
their prejudices on edge, and make them fancy they were 
shocked. He startled many of them at the onset, by ob- 
sennng, that, since Jacob's Dream, " the heavens have gone 
farther off and become astronomical," — a fine extravagance, 
which the ladies and gentlemen, who had grown astronomical 



ox THE LATE VILLIAM HAZLITT. 351 

themselves under the preceding lecturer, felt called on to re- 
sent as an attack on their severer studies. When he read a 
well-known extract from Cowper, comparing a poor cottager 
with Voltaire, and had pronounced the line "a truth the 
brilliant Frenchman never knew," they broke into a joyous 
shout of self-gratulation, that they were so much wiser than 
a wicked Frenchman ! When he passed by Mrs. Hannah 
More with observing, that " she had written a great deal 
which he had never read," a voice gave expression to the 
general commiseration and surprise, by calling out " More 
pity for you !" They were confounded at his reading with 
more emphasis perhaps than discretion. Gay's epigrammatic 
lines on Sir Richard Blackstone, in which scriptural persons 
are freely hitched into rhyme ; but he went doggedly on to 
the end, and, by his perseverance, baffled those who, if he 
had acknowledged himself wrong by stopping, would have 
hissed him without mercy. He once had an edifying ad- 
vantage over them. He was enumerating the humanities 
which endeared Dr. Johnson to his mind, and at the close of 
an agreeable catalogue, mentioned, as last and noblest, " his 
carrying the poor victim of disease and dissipation on his 
back through Fleet-street,"' — at which a titter arose from 
some, who were struck by the picture as ludicrous, and a 
murmui" from others, who deemed the allusion imfit for ears 
polite. He paused for an instant, and then added in his 
sturdiest and most impressive manner, " an act which realizes 
the parable of the Good Samaritan," at which his moral and 
delicate hearers shrunk rebuked into deep silence. He was 
not eloquent in the true sense of the term ; for his thoughts 
were too weighty to be moved along by the shallow stream 
of feeling which an evening's excitement can rouse. He 
wrote all his lectures, and read them as they were written : 
but his deep voice and earnest manner suited his matter 
well. He seemed to dig into his subject — and not in vain. 
In delivering his lonj^er quotations, he had scarcely continuity 
enough for the versification of Shakspeare and Milton, " with 
linked sweetness long drawn out ;" but he gave Pope's bril- 
liant satire and divine compliments, which are usually com- 
plete within the couplet, with an elegance and point which 
the poet himself would have felt as their highest praise. 
Mr. Hazlitt had little inclination to write about contem- 



352 TALFOURO'S MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS. 

porary authors, — and still less to read them. He was with 
difficulty persuaded to look into the Scotch Novels; but 
when he did so, he found them old in substance though new 
in form, read them with as much avidity as the rest of the 
world, and expressed better than any one else what all the 
world felt about them. His hearty love of them, howevei% 
did not decrease, but aggravate, his dislike of the political 
opuiions and practices of their author ; and yet, the strength 
of his hatred towards that which was accidental and transi- 
tory, only set off the unabated power of his regard for the 
free and the lasting. Coleridge and Wordsworth were not 
moderns to him ; for he knew them in his youth, which was 
his own antiquity, and the feelings which were the germ of 
their poetry had sunk deep into his heart. His personal ac- 
quaintance with them was broken before he became known 
to the world as an author, and he sometimes alluded to them 
with bitterness : but he, and he alone, has done justice to the 
immortal works of the one, and the genius of the other. The 
very prominence which he gave to them as objects of attack, 
at a time when it was the fashion to pour contempt on their 
names — when the public echoed those articles of the " Edin- 
burgh Review" upon them, which they now regard with 
wonder as the curiosities of criticism, proved what they still 
were to him ; and, in the midst of those attacks, there are 
involuntary confessions of their influence over his mind, are 
touches of admiration, heightened by fond regret, which 
speak more than his elaborate eulogies upon them in his 
" Spirit of the Age." With the exception of the works of 
these, and of two or three friends to whom we have alluded, 
he held modern literature in slight esteem ; and he regarded 
the discoveries of science, and the visions of optimism, witli 
an undazzled eye. His " large discourse of reason" looked 
not before, but after. He felt it his great duty, as a lover of 
genius and art, to defend the fame of the mighty dead. 
When the old painters were assailed in " The Catalogue 
Raisonn e of the British Institution," he was " touched with 
noble anger." All his own vain longings after the immor- 
tality of the works which were libelled, — the very tranquillity 
and beauty they had shed into his soul, — all his comprehen- 
sion of the sympathy and delight of thousands, which, accu- 
mulating through long time, had attested their worth — were 



ON THE LATE WILLIAM HAZLITT. 353 

fused together to dazzle and to blast the poor caviller who 
would disturb the judgment of ages. So, when a popular 
poet assailed the fame of Rousseau — seeking to reverse the 
decision of posterity on what that great writer had done, by 
fancying the opinion of people of condition in his neighbour- 
hood on what he seemed to their apprehensions while living 
\vith Madame de Wardens, he vindicated the prerogatives 
of genius with the true logic of passion. Few things irritated 
him more than the claims set up for the present generation 
to be wiser and better than those which have gone before 
it. He had no power of imagination to embrace the golden 
clouds which hang over the Future, but he rested and ex- 
patiated in the Past. To his apprehension human good did 
not appear a slender shoot of yesterday, like the bean-stalk 
in the fairy tale, aspiring to the skies, and ending in an en- 
chanted castle, but a huge growth of intertwisted fibres, 
grasping the earth by numberless roots, and bearing vestiges 
of " a thousand storms, a thousand thunders." 

It would be beside our purpose to discuss the relative 
merits of Mr. Hazlitt's publications, to most of which we have 
alluded in passing ; or to detail the scanty vicissitudes of a 
literary life. Still less do we feel bound to expose or to de- 
fend the personal frailties which fell to his portion. We have 
endeavoured to trace his intellectual character in the records 
he has left of himself in his works, as an excitement and a 
guide to their perusal by those who have yet to know them. 
The concern of mankind is with this alone. In the case of 
a profound thinker more than of any other, " that which men 
call evil" — the accident of his condition — is interred with 
him, while the good he has achieved lives unmingled and en- 
tire. The events of Mr. Hazlitt's true life are not his engage- 
ment by the " Morning Chronicle," or his transfer of his ser- 
vices to the " Times," or his introduction to the " Edinburgh 
Review," or his contracts or quarrels with booksellers ; but 
the progress and the development of his understanding as 
nurtured or swayed by his affections. " His warfare was 
within;" and its spoils are ours! His "thoughts which 
wandered through eternity " live with us, though the hand 
which traced them for our benefit is cold. His death, though 
at the age of only fifty-two, can hardly be deemed untimely. 



354 talfourd's miscellaneous writings. 

He lived to complete the laborious work in which he sought 
to embalm his idea of his chosen hero ; to see the unhoped-for 
downfall of the legitimate throne which had been raised on 
the ruins of the empire ; and to open, without exhausting, 
those stores which he had gathered in his youth. If the im- 
press of his power is not left on the sympathies of a people, it 
has (all he wished) sunk into minds neither unreflecting nor 
ungrateful. 



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